


Alone Time Again

by ProcrastinatingSab



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [4]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Blood and Injury, Gen, Gil Arroyo Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, ohh drugging tooo, psychological torment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:01:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25091272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/pseuds/ProcrastinatingSab
Summary: "Come, Malcolm," John hoisted him up. "Our alone time was cut short, last time. I'll make sure it won't happen again."John Watkins escapes and goes after Malcolm again. Gil and the team do their best to find him, but can they reach him in time?~~~Another Multi BTHB fic :)Blindfolded (ch4.) Bound and gagged (ch6.) Electrocution (ch8.) Dragging themselves along the ground (ch10.) Tied to a pole (ch.11)
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1687015
Comments: 240
Kudos: 193





	1. The Japanese Katana

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm finally back with a new fic Yay :P
> 
> (This fic takes place right after Eve leaves Malcolm at the end of episode 18.)
> 
> Massive thanks to my favorite jamqueen, Jameena for helping me brainstorm and bounce ideas ANDDD for looking over the chapter and being an awesome beta <33 ILY
> 
> Basically I wanted more Watkins and a more evil/reaching version of Endicott. I saw an opening and here we areeee. 
> 
> Buckle up!!

The Japanese Katana

"This isn't your search anymore; it is mine."

Eve’s words echoed in his mind as he stood there and watched her leave. Again. Malcolm heard a thud, and he wasn’t sure if that was his door closing or his heart breaking. Suddenly the loft was drenched in silence.

Malcolm’s smile was forlorn as he rested his elbow on the counter. Somehow that elbow was his center of mass, grounding him because he couldn’t feel his weight under him anymore. He remained where he was, detached from all reality, absorbed in his mind, trying to comprehend what had just happened. 

So much had changed since he last saw his father. 

Malcolm thought that they had the upper hand, that they had finally gotten what they wanted. He thought his father would admit to killing Sophie and reveal where he had buried her body, but how wrong they had been. 

Sophie Sanders was alive. Eve's sister was not dead or one of the unaccounted victims of his father. Suddenly, the girl in the box was much more than a murder gone undiscovered. Suddenly, the girl in the box had a name and a history. She was a fugitive, had papers and evidence against a man so powerful that even Martin Whitly, the surgeon, feared him. 

Malcolm had taken Eve to meet Martin, thinking they were meeting a lion, shackled in his den, scary and vicious but under control. He was surprised to find that their lion was controlled by another monster, much bigger and farther reaching. 

Part of Malcolm wasn't sure if that looming threat was real or a MacGuffin created by Dr. Whitly to manipulate them further. Yet another part of him believed that Dr. Whitly was scared. He was fidgety, and instead of flaunting and acting like his obnoxious confident self, his voice was lower, and his eyes kept darting across the room, making sure they weren't being spied on. Martin Whitly wasn't in control, and as much as it made the profiler giddy, it terrified him more.

Somewhere in the street, a car beeped its horn, breaking his trance. He blinked his stupor away and massaged his temples, hoping to drown the cacophony of thoughts plaguing his mind. The strain of the past few hours was creating a heavier load on his mind, and he wondered how long it would take before his mind fractured, leaving him a shell of who he used to be. 

Needing to drown his thoughts, Malcolm found his way to the bathroom and cranked the shower knobs, setting the temperature high. By the time he stripped, steam had filled the bathroom and fogged up the mirrors. Malcolm stepped into the spray of hot water and flinched as his skin protested against the temperature. He didn't turn it down, though. Instead, he savored the feeling of it burning his skin. The water pelted over his head, cascaded over his body, and in a way, washed his pain away. 

His fingers brushed against the faded scar on his side, and he shuddered. Although the wound was completely healed, the memory of it would never be forgotten. He re-lived it anytime he spared his scar a glance. Watkins’ knife plunging into his side, the horrible sensation of metal lodged between his organs, blood seeping out of it. The agonizing pain that lit his insides on fire when Watkins twisted the blade and yanked it out just as quickly. The helplessness he felt as his knees gave out, and he was left bleeding on cold concrete and stone. Malcolm ground his teeth against the remembered pain and tried to focus on relaxing his mind instead. 

It wasn't until the water turned cold that he finally stepped out. He felt more relaxed, at ease, or if he was honest, numb. The pain of Eve leaving him was still there, but it was not hammering at his heart like a blacksmith shaping a stubborn piece of metal. He put on a fresh pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and walked out, hair still wet and falling over his eyes. 

The loft was completely dark apart from a small lamp in the corner. Malcolm felt it looked bigger than he remembered, emptier now that he was its sole occupant. Well, him and Sunshine. At that thought, he looked to his beloved parakeet, who was somehow awake and screeching in her cage, flapping her wings furiously. 

"Hey, Sunshine," he hopped the stairs as he walked towards her, brushing the stray locks of hair that fell over his eyes. "What woke you up? Are you having night terrors too?" he cooed as he opened her cage and extended his index finger, expecting her to hop onto it as usual. Instead, the bird dashed out and flew over the loft frantically. 

Sunshine usually didn’t act up like that unless he had guests. Malcolm cast a hopeful glance around the loft, inspecting it, but finding it empty. His door was still locked. Eve was still gone. 

Sighing, Malcolm went over to the counter and poured himself a glass of whiskey. The strong taste hit him immediately. Being heavily medicated, he wasn't allowed to drink much, but some days he just needed it. The reaction was almost immediate, the alcohol coupled with the hot shower, drained whatever muscle tension that was still remaining. Taking out his phone, Malcolm stumbled towards the couch, surprised that he was already losing focus. 

He wanted to call Eve and convince her that she shouldn't do this alone, that the girl in the box was a part of him too, that she was the ghost who had haunted him all his life. He deserved to find her and get answers, too. The search for Sophie Sanders was his fight as much as it was hers. He wanted Eve to understand, but he was just so suddenly tired.

Malcolm was so exhausted that keeping his eyes open was a struggle. His hands felt like they were made of lead, and his body sank into the cold leather of the sofa. Maybe he should call her tomorrow... 

The sound of wood creaking made him stir for a second. Was someone upstairs? He strained his ears, but his sleepy mind dismissed the noise. It was probably his imagination. Right now, all Malcolm wanted to do was to sleep. He just needed to get back to bed and strap himself in. Oh, and put Sunshine back in her cage. He just...needed...to...move his legs...

But then the creaking deepened, and heavy footsteps sounded in the loft, and Sunshine was screeching louder than ever now. Something wasn’t right. His sluggish brain was slow to put the pieces together, but he was beginning to understand. 

Someone was definitely in the loft. Malcolm willed his body to move, but it felt like kickstarting a car with no battery-- it was never going to happen. Instead, he listened to the footsteps, heavy yet assured. The little hairs at the back of his neck stood when he realized that he knew them. He'd recognize those booted steps anywhere.

Malcolm's blood ran cold. Suddenly, the face of John Watkins loomed over him, smiling that ominous smile. The adrenaline was like gasoline igniting in Malcolm's veins, and he desperately fought to keep his eyes open, to move his limbs. Still, the more he tried to exert himself, the deeper he felt himself falling. 

"Sleep well, little Malcolm," John's hands closed his eyelids, and it was like he had glued them shut. Malcolm felt himself fade into the darkness.

* * *

Sunshine was quiet now. 

Malcolm groggily opened his eyes, feeling a bit surprised that he was even asleep. He had sweated a lot, and the warm and wet leather was uncomfortable against his body. He was on the couch, and the memory of how he ended up sleeping there was a mystery. It was still dark, which meant he couldn't have slept much. 

Something was odd. Malcolm didn't usually sleep that deeply, not without night terrors hijacking his rest. And now he was lying perfectly still on the couch, dozing off like an ordinary person might? He closed his eyes and tried to remember what happened before he fell asleep, but the last thing that came to mind was him having a long hot shower and letting Sunshine out. Disorientation, memory loss, and heavy, dreamless sleep...he felt more drugged than well-rested.

Drugged? 

Watkins!

Malcolm's eyes flew wide open as he looked around in a surge of renewed panic. John Watkins was sitting on the chair opposite the couch, surveying him with an amused grin. 

Flustered, he tried to move, to fumble for anything to use as a weapon for protection, but his body was useless, his muscles were still sore and protested against any movement. He looked at his hands and realized that they were restrained, and not with his usual leather restraints, but with handcuffs. His breathing spiked, and it took him a couple of panicked minutes before he brought it down. 

Watkins’ eyes glittered. "I always enjoy the moment they wake up. Their panic, the realization. You can smell it in the air." Watkins sniffed as if sampling a pleasant bouquet, and for a moment, Malcolm was back in that dark basement, shackled to the floor. 

"How?" he asked, noting how unsteady and weak his voice sounded. There was still a chance that this wasn't real. Maybe last night's events had finally driven him over the edge.

"Does it matter?” 

No. It was real. So, so real. The voice, the body language, the smirk. It was real. "Yes... you’re supposed to be in Rikers," he rasped. 

"And now I'm not," Watkins shrugged, his eyes still fixated on Malcolm, watching him struggle to hide his obviously increasing panic. "Someone wanted me out, and here I am." He made a ta-da motion like a magician who made a rabbit appear out of nowhere. 

Although physically incapacitated, Malcolm's train of thought was running at a hundred miles per hour with no brakes, and the track was leading to a dead end. 

Someone. Could it be...

It had to be the man his dad feared.

Was his reach that strong? Was Eve okay?

Had they been watched, spied upon? Had his dad been right to be so worried? 

Or did Dr. Whitly give them up? Not impossible, seeing how he had wanted to kill him once. He flinched internally at this thought. No, his father was scared. He wouldn't have given them up. 

"Nice place you have here, Malcolm," John got up. "Even got yourself a little bird to keep you company." He turned around and moved towards the weapons collection, whistling in admiration. Malcolm tensed. “For someone who claims they're not a killer, you sure do have quite the collection. Are you sure you don’t use them?”

Malcolm took the time John was distractedly looking at his weapons to move into a seated position. His abs screamed as he pulled himself up, and his vision blurred. He dragged his feet to the floor, only just noticing that they were bound with rope. Now he got promoted from being sleeping prey to a sitting duck. Somewhere the ' _I appreciate the little improvements no matter how small they are_ ' affirmation card was laughing at him. 

Before he could think of any further plans to improve his situation, the sound of the cabinet opening made him freeze. Of all the weapons on display, Watkins picked the one Malcolm feared the most. 

The 17th century Japanese Katana. Very expensive. And Sharp!

Once one of his most esteemed weapons, but after it so ungraciously impaled him during one of his night terrors, it quickly became his most hated. Was it only his luck that Watkins picked that one specifically? It wasn’t the shiniest or the most lethal in his collection.

Malcolm took a gasping breath as John turned, brandishing the bladed weapon in his hands, and looking at his captive with his infuriatingly devilish grin. 

Did he know? How?

Malcolm pushed the soles of his feet into the floor in an effort to press himself against the back of the couch just as John rested the tip of the sword against his heart. 

“Nice sword.”

"It's a Katana." Malcolm winced when John pulled the blade back, moving out of his line of sight. Not having his eyes on the blade shattered all pretenses of being calm and in control.

His adrenaline was like a fire ignited in his blood vessels, fighting against the drugs' hazy effects. If Malcolm was panicked before, he was flat out terrified now. His good sense took the passenger seat, leaving the fear response to drive his actions. Suddenly no amount of air was enough to make his lungs feel at ease, and he heard himself wheezing. His eyes watered, and he tasted bile burning his throat. 

He heard the sound of fabric being torn before he saw the tip of the blade emerge from the couch a mere inch away from his body. Malcolm screamed as though he had been impaled. It was a deafening, blood-curdling scream that left him gasping for air. 

How could he know? How did he know?

Behind him, Watkins was probably laughing, taunting, or mocking, but all Malcolm could hear was the thundering of his heart. Watkins plunged the blade into the couch again, and it emerged on his other side, making two holes in the couch, and Malcolm gasped and squeezed his eyes shut. He was trembling like a leaf by now, bound and hopeless on that couch awaiting his impalement. And while he could have hopped off the sofa or fought the weakness in his muscles, his fear rendered him totally immobile.

This was just like his nightmare, and he knew the next one would be it. It was inevitable; Watkins was going to kill him, and he couldn't find the breath to even beg for his life. 

But then the blade didn't pierce his heart. Instead, the Katana flew over his head and fell on the floor with a loud clang that made him flinch and yelp weakly. Malcolm sagged as Watkins came back into view, triumphant and giddy. 

"That was quite a show, Malcolm," he mocked, "Why do you have so many weapons if they scare you this much?"

Malcolm's chest heaved frantically. He stared at the Katana, abandoned on the floor, not giving Watkins any attention. He was trying to calm himself down, but nothing worked. He was hyperventilating and spiraling. How could Watkins know? What _else_ did he know?

"Oh, little Malcolm," John cooed as he reached for a bottle in his jacket and got out an old rag. “I think you need some help to relax. Just like old times." He held the cloth to Malcolm’s nose, and he was too tired and too weak to fend him off. He welcomed the sweet smell of the chloroform as it flooded his nostrils and made its way to his mind, relaxing the tension he felt in his muscles instantly. 

The dose wasn't enough to pull him back into unconsciousness, but it was enough to keep him under control. Malcolm could see and feel everything, but once again, his limbs were made of concrete, and he had no control over them. He stared at Watkins hazily as he returned the Katana back in its place after erasing his fingerprints. 

The pressure he felt over his ankles gave way. 

"Come, Malcolm," John hoisted him up and planted one hand under his armpit to steady him. "Our alone time was cut short. I'll make sure it won't happen again."

  
  



	2. The station wagon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jameena, you are the best! Thanks for being an awesome beta, I Love you ❤️❤️

The station wagon 

Watkins' station wagon was parked right outside the loft. John half carried, half dragged Malcolm down the stairs and shoved him into the passenger seat. The moment John unsnapped the lock on one of his wrists, Malcolm flailed weakly, making a dive for the sidewalk, but the drugs still coursing through his system allowed John to overpower him before anyone noticed. Forcing both his hands behind his back, John cuffed him again and quickly secured his seat belt, leaving Malcolm to stare dizzily through the windshield.

"Excuse me," said a concerned voice behind them. "Is everything alright?"

John swiftly grabbed a blanket from the back seat and covered Malcolm's body with it, making sure his face was the only thing visible before he turned to face the good samaritan.

"My friend had a little too much to drink, and I'm helping him get home," John assured with a laugh. For someone so withdrawn, John could be pretty damn convincing when he wanted. Malcolm, himself, almost bought into his charm. He heard both men talk, a brief laugh, and the man looked like he was nearly convinced. Seeing his only chance evaporating before his eyes, Malcolm forced himself to focus and say something, to ask the man to call for help, but all that came out was a whine.

"Are you sure?" the bystander, about to leave, turned to survey Malcolm. "Are you alright, Sir?"

"Of course, he is. Aren't you, Malcolm," John turned then, adjusted the blanket and whispered, "If you tell him anything, I'll kill him right here in front of you." 

"Sir?"

Malcolm's wild eyes darted between them. John, who was giving him a death glare, and the man, who was looking more alarmed by the second. There was no way he could endanger this man's life. Malcolm blinked the haze away before he looked up and tried to sound as convincing as possible, " 'm fine. John's a family friend."

The man hesitated for a moment, before nodding and moving along. Malcolm watched as his silhouette disappeared, and before he could blink, John was looming over him again. He shoved his arm against Malcolm's neck.

Malcolm squirmed beneath John's weight, but he was trapped. The struggle only made John press harder, leaving him no room to breathe. Malcolm gasped and spluttered, his eyes watering and his hands scrabbling uselessly behind his back. Malcolm was sure if John didn't let go soon, his lungs would certainly burst.

John seemed to be enjoying himself, though, watching his victim writhe and convulse under him, the life in Malcolm’s eyes flickering like a candle in John’s hand--one swift move and it would be extinguished. John leaned into him, and Malcolm could feel the hot breath against his face. 

"Do something stupid like that again, and you'll regret it," Watkins promised and finally pulled away. 

Malcolm wheezed and coughed, sucking in as much air as he could. The drugs kept him dazed, but coupled with the lack of air, he was beginning to lose his grip on consciousness. He was out before Watkins even closed the door.

* * *

The motion of the car changed from steady to bumpy before coming to an abrupt stop. Opening his eyes, Malcolm observed the shades of orange and yellow fight their way through an otherwise dull grey sky. 

No longer lulled to sleep by the constant motion of the car, Malcolm fought his fluttering eyes to inspect his surroundings. When he tried to move and found himself unable to, he panicked. Watkins was nowhere to be seen. 

Using the opportunity, Malcolm groggily shifted in his seat, his hands searching for the seat belt release. Perhaps if he got out of the car, he could run for help somewhere. He wasn't sure that was possible, though. John wasn't stupid; they were off the road in some woods, and the place looked deserted. Watkins wouldn't leave him here if he wasn't sure there was nowhere for him to go. Nevertheless, he had to try.

Still disoriented from the drugs, mind slow, and hands numb, it took him more time than necessary to unlatch the seat belt and turn to open the car door. Unsurprisingly, the door was locked. "Damn it!" 

He was running out of time, and John might be back any minute. After fruitlessly searching for the central lock with fingers that felt cold and swollen and unlike his own, Malcolm opted to use his feet, extending his legs over to the driver's door and. _..almost there_. 

_Click._ Finally!

Exhilarated with the small achievement, he tried to open the door again and was relieved to find it wasn't child locked. He hurriedly got his feet under him and shivered as his bare feet touched the cold gravel.

Malcolm launched himself from the car only to trip and fall face first, arms wrenched behind him. Instead of falling, though, he found himself being slammed back against the car. John had him bodily pinned.

"I see you've been busy, Malcolm," John snarled in his face before he dropped one hand into his pocket and got out his chloroform bottle.

John shoved another drug-soaked cloth to Malcolm’s face. Malcolm held his breath and tried to push John off him. Not only did the drug impede his movement and his chances to defend himself, but he was afraid that John would use too much and accidentally kill him. 

"Breathe it in Malcolm," Watkins ordered, pushing the rag impatiently. "C'mon!" he yelled, kneeing him in the stomach. 

Malcolm gasped, forgetting about the cloth pushed to his face as his body reacted on instinct, taking in a great gulp of air. Still pinned by John, he couldn't even double over and protect himself; instead, he cried out as his abs screamed in pain. Like last time, the dose wasn't enough to pull him under, but strong enough to render him unsteady.

Seeing in double, entire body shaking and head pounding, Malcolm was dragged to a small cabin that looked almost fit to collapse on itself. He heard the squeak of the door and the floor creaking as if protesting the weight on it, and suddenly they were in the cabin. The stench of mold and mycelium invaded his nose and made his nausea a hundred times more unpleasant. He kept his mouth closed, fearing if he opened it, he'd get sick all over himself. Beside him, John didn't even appear fazed.

He grunted as John grabbed a handful of his hair and led him towards a door with a metal latch _on the outside_. Knowing what was about to happen, Malcolm's heart leapt to his throat as he, once again, unsuccessfully tried to get out of John's hold. It wasn’t even a fight this time, as he was busy trying to keep his feet under him, and the contents of his stomach at bay. 

John yanked the door open to reveal a room as small as a closet with no visible light source. Unlike the wooden floorboards in the cabin, this room was concrete. One second Malcolm was next to Watkins, his head yanked uncomfortably as John's hands grabbed his hair, and the next, he found himself catapulting towards the back wall, hitting it hard. He cried out against the pain in his shoulder, and now without John's support, he couldn't keep his feet under him. Malcolm’s knees buckled, and he fell to the floor, trying to breathe against nausea and the pain. 

"See you later, Malcolm," John called nonchalantly. 

“Watkins, wait!” 

The door closed with a bang, and Malcolm heard the sound of the metal latch falling in place with a loud clang that felt like a cannon boom.

Minding his hands and the very cramped space, he curled to one side and rested his head on the wall as he heard John's footsteps fade, leaving him drenched in complete darkness.

* * *

Two days. 

To the Lieutenant's shame, it took two days before he realized something was wrong. In his defense, it was the weekend, and he assumed that Malcolm and Eve were having some alone time together. Not wanting to be a helicopter parent or hover unnecessarily, Gil thought he should give them some time off, especially after the news they got from Martin the other day.

Malcolm deserved some happiness, and right now, Eve was the closest thing to it. Thinking back on it now, he must have known they would have never _stayed blissfully at home_. He knew Malcolm well enough to make such a mistake.

When Malcolm didn't show up on Monday morning, Gil's suspicions started creeping in. After calling him four times and only getting Bright's answering machine, he was sure that a disaster had taken place. Those suspicions were confirmed when he reached the loft. Even though it was in an impeccable state as ever, Gil's keen eyes were able to spot the small inconsistencies.

Like the fact that all of Malcolm's coats were hanging near the door as well as his satchel, which meant that he didn't leave before Gil came. There was no empty coffee cup by the counter, and Sunshine's water and food bowls were empty. Malcolm hadn't slept in the loft for a day, at least.

Noticing the two massive holes in the couch, Gil's blood ran cold. He wasn't unfamiliar with Bright's weird love for his weapons and the fact that he could have had a 'stabbing the couch' party, like the many axe throwing ones. Yet it was the fact that he could see Bright's phone on the ground, coupled with everything else that had filled him with dread, made him believe that Bright wasn't behind this.

If Malcolm had eloped with Eve, he wouldn't have left his bird uncared for. Malcolm could have left his phone and maybe avoided Gil so he couldn't talk him out of one of his stupid plans, but he would never abandon Sunshine this way. This parakeet was everything the kid had. Hurriedly, he refilled Sunshine's food and water and left. Calling Dani, he asked her to pull the CCTV footage overlooking Malcolm's street.

The drive back to the precinct was a miracle. Gil's hands shook no matter how much he squeezed the steering wheel, and he was surprised that he reached the precinct in one piece.

* * *

The Lieutenant and his two detectives were in the conference room, somberly observing the CCTV footage of the night Malcolm called Gil and told him about the developments in Sophie's case. They didn't have to watch much since it all happened on the first night, not two hours after Malcolm had called Gil. 

They watched as Eve left, bags in hand, and hopped into a cab, confirming that she and Malcolm weren't on some exotic trip or wild goose chase.

Not soon after, an old station wagon parked in front of the loft. They watched as a shadowed figure in a hood and baseball cap let himself into the building. He had his head ducked and was carefully avoiding all the cameras. Not one camera angle captured a clear shot of his face. 

An hour passed with the man upstairs. Hitting his peak patience, Gil started to tap on the table, desperate to know what happened in that building. His mind kept supplying one horrible thought after another, and he just needed to see where Malcolm was.

Beside him, JT and Dani were similarly tense. Dani suggested they speed the tape, but they were worried they'd miss something important. Sure enough, at one hour and five minutes, the hooded man reappeared, carrying the trunk that rested by Bright's bed.

“So what? Is this guy a thief?” Dani asked, looking at the two men. 

"I mean, the kid's pretty loaded, but something feels off," JT observed, not breaking his eyes from the screen as the man struggled to load it in the back of the station wagon.

Gil said nothing. He was dreading that Bright might be in there, but he kept the thought to himself, too afraid to say it aloud lest it became true. The perp finished securing the box before he went back up again. 

They spent another tense and mysterious hour before the man appeared again.

They all held their breath just as the man came in the frame again, leading Malcolm, who seemed unsteady on his feet, to the passenger seat.

"Shit," JT muttered while they watched. Gil's world seemed to fall around him, and he struggled to focus on the screen, let alone stand upright.

Once again, they could only see the man's back. When the figure settled Malcolm in the car, he made it a point to obscure his face by standing in front of him. They watched as a passerby interacted with them, and as he left, probably convinced that there was nothing amiss.

The man closed the door, stepped in the driver’s seat, and drove away. 

Three minutes passed in silence as the events sank in, and then all three of them were sprung into motion.

“He was too careful. We couldn’t see his face,” JT muttered, “You think this is about some case?” 

"Bright looked out of it like he's drugged or something," Dani replied.

"Have someone follow that car. See where it went!" Gil locked eyes with Dani, who nodded and strode out of the room.

“Damn it! Are these the only camera angles we have?” JT said, frustration evident as he replayed the recording. 

“JT, send some officers to the loft, make them do a thorough sweep. We need everything we can find.” JT picked up his phone and started barking orders.

Shakily, Gil found his way to the nearest chair and sank into it. 

* * *

They found partial prints on Bright's whiskey glass, which had been laced with a benzodiazepine. That explained why Malcolm was out of it. There were no signs of forced entry, but the spare keys were gone. All the weapons had Bright’s fingerprints on them, except one. They matched the holes in the couch to Malcolm's Japanese Katana. Seeing as it was the only one without Bright's fingerprints on it, it made sense that the intruder had wiped it after using it. 

The only clue they had was the partial plates that JT managed to obtain from the CCTV footage. Dani was looking for any filed reports on stolen cars in the past forty-eight hours that matched the description. The fact that the station wagon was old and rare significantly helped in narrowing down their search. 

Gil sat at his desk, reviewing the evidence they had so far. JT was hunched over the table in the opposite chair when Dani barged in, her face drained and ashen. She looked winded, and her voice broke when she spoke. "Gil, it's Watkins! The stolen wagon led to him...he escaped from Claremont Psychiatric Facility three days ago." 

“What!” JT walked to Dani, taking the files from her to read over, himself.

"Claremont?” Gil asked. “He's supposed to be in Rikers! Since when was he transferred to a psychiatric facility, and how did it happen without anyone telling us?" 

"The paperwork says he suffered a psychotic break and was transferred for acute treatment in an appropriate facility," she explained.

"And why weren't we informed?" Gil asked. "And his escape! How did they keep that under wraps _for three days_?" He slammed the table in frustration, making Dani flinch. He instantly regretted the outburst and clenched his hands, trying to direct all his anger and fear in those closed fists.

"I don't know, the clerk wouldn't give me many details," Dani stammered. "They were afraid to incite panic and fear. They wanted to keep it quiet, and they only contacted the FBI."

"We are not the public. We are the goddamn police!" Gil’s hands shook, and he tried to steady his voice. "And he has Bright now. It's been two days, Dani. Who knows what happened to him or if he's — if he's..."

“He is going to be alright, Gil!” Suddenly Dani was next to him, putting a hand on his elbow and squeezing. He looked at her and saw that even though her eyes were pained, there was a fierce conviction behind them. 

"Bullshit!" JT swore, and they both looked at him expectantly.

"What's wrong, JT?" Gil asked, already dreading the answer.

“You will not believe who John Watkins attending physiatrist was.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sneaking this between my submissions :P (Don't tell anyone hehehe)  
> Thanks for reading!! If you liked it, let me know what you thought!!


	3. Simon Says

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my super awesome beta- > Jameena! This wouldn't be the same without your help!! <333 You always make this 100 times better and ILY for it!!!
> 
> Also shoutout to Hannah_BWTM for giving me her insight on some plot issues and for being an awesome cheerleader <3

Simon Says

Malcolm lost track of the time he spent in his little prison. He figured it must have been more than a day judging by how his muscles felt crammed in the tiny space.

At first, when Watkins left, he lay there, dazed and drugged, unable to think or move, passing in and out of consciousness. When the drug left his system, the warmth from his fever dissipated, and his body heat slowly seeped out into the icy room. He started shivering, suddenly too aware of the cold concrete floor and the short-sleeved t-shirt that was barely adequate. But while clarity crept back in, the pounding headache, the pulsating ache in his shoulders, and the nausea he felt were enough to distract him from being totally functional.

Feeling stiff and cramped, Malcolm tried to shift around and find a more comfortable position to rest, but each one failed as the cuffs dug painfully in his spine and left him wincing. Every movement made his vision swim, and his nausea worsen, so he stopped moving, forcing himself to focus and order his thoughts.

Breathing seemed to help, and soon the pain in his skull subdued into a more bearable dull throb — or maybe he was just getting used to it. He couldn’t really tell. Now he could feel the claws of thirst scrape at his throat, confirming that it had been too long since he'd been left in this hole. Malcolm couldn’t remember the last time he drank. Maybe whiskey he had right before he was taken? He was dehydrated, and the drug's effects only amplified it. Once he acknowledged the nagging thirst, he couldn't push it aside. The incessant need for water filled him with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that made waiting intolerable.

But waiting was all he could do. 

He waited for John to return, but he never did. The minutes bled into hours, which felt like days as he lay there, cramped and alone. Malcolm strained his ears to listen to any signs of life outside his small prison, but he was greeted with nothing but an eerie silence. The quick glimpse he'd caught of the house on the way into this hole was enough to know that this cabin breathed with the life inside it. Knowing how old and rusty the structure was, how the floor protested against the slightest move, Malcolm was sure that this silence implied John's absence. Part of him wondered if John was starving him, making him a part of his old mission now that his other plan failed. Still, the lack of a mirror, an essential part of John’s ritualized _sinful reflection_ , indicated otherwise. Rejuvenated by the knowledge of John's absence, Malcolm shuffled, trying to bring feeling back to his feet. Whatever John's new plan was, he didn't want to stick around to be a part of it. He needed to go back and look for Eve, make sure John hadn't hurt her, and help her find her sister.

He also didn't need another stab wound in his stomach like last time. Thankful that he wasn't shackled to the floor, he slowly pulled his feet under him and attempted to stand. Eyes had adjusted to the dark, he tottered to the door, feeling for the doorknob.

There was none. 

The door had no inner handle, and even if it had, there was still the issue of the metal latch on the other side. Too stubborn to give up, Malcolm kicked at the door. Once. Twice. Four times and the door didn’t even budge. All it did was increase his nausea and jar his leg at the knee and hip. 

Malcolm swore and couldn't suppress the outburst of anger and despair. He was so angry. Angry at himself for getting kidnapped, hoodwinked by Watkins yet again. Angry with John for abandoning him. He was mainly angry at his father because he still managed to ruin everything for him, even locked away in prison.

He walked all of the three steps which separated the door from the wall, leaned against it, and awkwardly slid down to the floor again. He wished he hadn't been so careless with his yoga classes, that his shoulders were flexible enough to bring his hands in front of him. He was frustrated with his current predicament and lack of control, dizzy with the lack of water, and utterly confused with John's attitude.

Watkins was different 

Choosing that Katana might have been a coincidence, but attacking him that way wasn't. Keeping him drugged and confused, stuffing him in a station wagon similar to the one they took on the camping trip? Taking him to a cabin in the woods and leaving him in a closed dark room...too many instances to be considered a coincidence.

Malcolm frowned. John’s profile didn’t make sense. He knew what scared Malcolm, what made him tick. He was attacking him psychologically, weakening his resolve, gaining an unfair advantage over him. It was smart. Tactful. That’s why he left him here. The frown on Malcolm’s face deepened as he wracked his brain for an explanation, closing his eyes momentarily as he yearned for a drop of water to quench his thirst. Or for his headache to stop— he wasn’t picky.

Watkins must have had help, guidance. Someone who knew Malcolm. Someone who understood his fears and what actions would resonate with his trauma. 

Someone who had access to his medical files, to his records and therapy session notes, to detailed descriptions of his night terrors (of the one with the girl in the box impaling him). 

Malcolm only knew two people who possessed this information.

* * *

_The lawyer promised him that he wouldn't spend the night in a cell. And he delivered. Simon Coppenrath answered his door while dragging his left leg. It wasn't heavier than his right — in truth, the tracking anklet barely weighed anything. The emotional weight of it, however, was quite overwhelming. Still, house arrest was so much better than a cell in Rikers._

_Simon greeted his lawyer formally, stepping aside for him to enter. Everett Sterling relaxed in an armchair, crossing his legs like he owned the place. Although the psychiatrist knew the power move all too well, he couldn't help but shuffle nervously as he found his own seat. Pretenses be damned. He knew he had a lot to lose, and so did the man sitting opposite him._

_Sterling’s deep baritone voice filled the tense silence. “I trust you find this arrangement better than an extended stay in Rikers, Dr. Coppenrath.”_

_"Yes, it certainly is. But I would be more at ease when I know why you took an interest in my..._ **_case_ ** _.”_

_"My client…" the lawyer corrected him, stressing his words, "wanted to help you. Seeing your invaluable reputation and esteemed position with the NYPD before the incident? Talents such as yours would be wasted behind bars… and for what? A tiny mishap. Nothing we can't take care of." He smiled pragmatically._

"Thank you for coming, Dr. Coppenrath." The Lieutenant made his way through the interrogation room and sat in the chair opposite him, stiff and formal. They had kept him waiting for an hour before anyone came, only offering him a glass of water. It was certainly done to make him nervous. Simon Coppenrath was, however, not unfamiliar with the tactic, and hence unaffected. “Do you want some coffee, tea?”

"Can't say it's a pleasure, Lieutenant Arroyo. No, thank you, the water is fine. I must ask, though, do I need to call my lawyer?" He inquired calmly, holding out his phone.

“No, we just need some information, nothing to be worried about.” Gil dismissed the idea, shaking his head slightly, “It’s all voluntary. You’re helping us on a case.”

“Ahh! Well, ask away. I have to get back to my office soon. I don’t like to keep my patients waiting.” Simon smiled coldly. 

"Very well," Gill looked over his notes, pretending to consult them before he asked his questions. "Congratulations, by the way. All charges dropped? Such a miracle!"

Simon's smile dropped, and his face hardened. "Not a miracle, Lieutenant... _Justice._ ” 

If the Lieutenant disagreed, though, he didn't say anything. “So you’re still practicing. Kept your license?” 

_"My talents? My profession?" Simon scoffed. "My career is over! At best, I'll lose my license. I can't see how you or your client can help me or how I can help him when I'm looking at a prison sentence."_

_“Come now, Simon. This is something easily taken care of. Just like getting house arrest, we can arrange for you to keep your license.” Sterling slowed down in his delivery, purposely increasing the tension in the room. He put his hands in a steeple gesture, making sure to keep his eye contact. “That is, only if you accept my employer’s proposition.”_

_Simon looked at the lawyer. A feeling of unease and uncertainty crept up his stomach. This man was notorious for defending criminals and negotiating unprecedented deals. Most famously, with the Surgeon's case. Martin Whitly killed twenty-three people and was enjoying life at Claremont Psychiatric Facility in a resort-like suite. Simon had always known that money and influence were involved. He licked his lips, weighing his options. "So, like the Surgeon?"_

_"Precisely. As you know, Dr. Whitly is still consulting on surgeries around the world. You offered your home to a troubled homeless woman, attempted to treat a deranged man? That's easily taken care of."_

_Simon blinked. He almost wanted to laugh at the comparison. “So, you can convince the Board of Medicine not to suspend my license? To allow me to keep me practicing?”_

_“Yes.”_

“Yes, it was agreed that I was too much of an asset to let go and that past misunderstandings should be… forgotten.”

“Of course, and dare I say, that after your unfortunate experience, finding a job was hard?”

"Barely an inconvenience, Lieutenant," Simon smiled blandly. "Can we please get to the point of this interview. I don't see why asking me about my life could help your supposed case."

Gil cleared his throat and nodded. "The last time you were here, you ran an investigation to see if Malcolm Bright was fit to work after John Watkins kidnapped him."

“As far as I recall, it was more of a set up by you and your team to trap me,” Simon corrected. “But, yes.”

"Still, you had access to his files, you spent an entire day talking about his kidnapping and trauma. So, can you say that you have a good insight into Bright's condition."

_“And why is your client willing to help me?” Simon raised an eyebrow, looking at the lawyer._

_"As I said, he saw you as an asset. You have knowledge... Umm information — on certain individuals, and your professional medical opinion and consultations… can be utilized.”_

_Although the words were vague and ominous, the connection didn't escape the psychiatrist. This was the man who defended Martin Whitly. Being approached by the Surgeon's lawyer right after his son ruined Simon's life was no coincidence. It had to be about them. Sterling's client seemed interested in this family for some reason, and Simon had access to the younger Whitly's medical records, all of them. He had sat with him and listened to him talking about his troubles, nightmares, and kidnapping. Simon spoke to his family and friends. He knew all his fears, all his doubts, and insecurities. He knew how Malcolm Bright thought, and it only took one day. Simon was_ **_very_ ** _good at his job._

“You seem to have misunderstood my job description, Lieutenant,” Simon replied dryly. “I’m a psychiatrist, not a magician. Even if I read Malcolm’s medical history, one day with him is not enough for me to be called an expert on his condition.” 

Simon leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, looking around. “Speaking of, where is he? Last I recall, there was some _tension_ between you two. Did you finally listen to my advice and bar him from the precinct?” 

Gil started, suddenly the ability to speak forgotten as the flashbacks of his fight with Malcolm came back to him. This time, and especially with him missing again, the guilt was gnawing at his heart. All he could see was Malcolm's troubled face begging for help, begging for comfort, and instead of hugging him, Gil harshly kicked him out. He could see he was hurting, and he ignored his cry for help. Gil could see the kid unraveling in front of him, breaking down piece by piece while he fixated on the words…" because of you." And Gil knew it hurt so much because it was true. It was true, and it was suffocating him, to have his kid acknowledge Gil's hand in all this.

Suddenly, Gil was taken back to that night, watching behind his blinds in his office as Malcolm ran into the conference room and slammed the door shut. He remembered Dani’s frantic banging on the door, begging him to open up. The guilt boiled at his insides like acid, burning him up just thinking about Malcolm’s attempt at electrocuting himself. Making it all go away. Because Malcolm’s safe space- Gil- saw him hurting and rejected him. Gil’s face contorted in remembered pain, his lip twitched involuntarily, and his breathing hitched. 

Feigning concern, Simon continued, “I’m sensing some tension in your body language Lieutenant, not unlike last time we met. Maybe there is something you wish to discuss. Something disturbing you?”

"This isn't a counseling session," Gil hissed back, getting more and more irritated, more and more unhinged. He needed to get this under control. Malcolm needed him. He repeated his mantra again. Malcolm didn't have much time, and he needed him. He forced himself to breathe and focus. He needed to take control.

“Perhaps, but I’m a psychiatrist after all. Helping people deal with their trauma is what I do.”

“Like John Watkins.” 

“Excuse me?” The psychiatrist blinked in surprise, taken off balance by the comment. 

"John Watkins. You treated him, even though it could cause an unwarranted breach of confidentiality, seeing that you had access to Malcolm Bright's medical files." 

The more Gil explained, the more he could see Simon's face get hotter. By the time the last word left his mouth, Simon had looked like he was fit to kill. His calm demeanor was gone. Like an onion, Gil had peeled his layers one by one, and at his core, Simon Coppenrath was full of rage.

He all but spat his answer. "John Watkins was a patient in our facility. The higher-ups decided that I should see him given his deeply rooted trauma after _Mr. Bright_ trapped him in a trunk, forcing him to relive his childhood trauma. Seeing that I specialize in such cases, I immediately agreed.” 

“But you had a session with Bright, he gave you information about Watkins. How...”

"I have no proof that anything Mr. Bright said was even true. It was all a setup. I had a duty to my patient, and that's what I cared about. Whatever happened in the precinct was long forgotten."

“Very well, please calm down.” 

“ _I’m calm!!_ " Simon hissed. His trembling hands held the glass of water on the table, and he sipped on it greedily. He didn't know why he was so worked up. It was infuriating how this interview seemed to have no point. It was irregular and unorthodox _—_ unnerving somehow.

Gil had remained impassive, giving Simon time to calm down, yet planning his next move carefully. This interrogation was like the rowing of a boat at sea _—_ a push and a pull. Too much pushing, and it would get them nowhere. So Gil pulled. "Shall we continue?" 

Simon remained poker-faced, but the Lieutenant noticed the slight twitch in his hand before he interlocked his fingers. Seeing the silence as his cue, Gil continued, "You know John Watkins escaped four days ago."

“I do, and the FBI has already taken my statement. I wasn’t aware your department was handling it, too,” Simon replied calmly this time, having regained his composure. 

"It is not," the Lieutenant stated. "I was just curious what your reaction was when you heard."

"Curious? I doubt that's something that requires summoning me here for Lieutenant. If you are _curious_ , you could ask to see the statement that I gave the FBI, but this baseless interview? Some might say it's an abuse of power."

"The FBI is handling his escape, we are looking into the missing case of Malcolm Bright. Right now, we have information that Watkins escaped to go after Bright."

Simon paled. 

Gil was eyeing Simon’s every move, every twitch, every blink. Simon was surprised. 

"Now the papers here say that his original diagnosis, suffering a psychotic break, was signed by you?"

_“Dr. Coppenrath, I hope you’re well.” Sterling’s businesslike tone came through the phone. It was Simon’s first day as a free man, back in an office at Claremont Psychiatric Facility._

_“Sterling, how can I help you?”_

_"Ahh, straight to business. Perfect. My client needs some help from you. You'll find some papers on your desk that need your signature. It's for transferring a prisoner to your facility. He wants you to take good care of him."_

_Simon looked through the files on his desk until his eyes found the one in question._

_Prisoner Name: John Watkins._

_“Um … Watkins?!”_

_“I don’t need to remind you of our arrangement. Watkins should be out of prison by the end of this week, so please have the papers prepared. Is that going to be a problem, Dr. Coppenrath?”_

_Simon hesitated for a second. He knew what he was getting into, yet still, the request took him by surprise. “Um… no, it’ll be done!”_

“Yes. He clearly suffered from one and had to be treated. Rikers isn’t equipped to handle such patients. John Watkins needed help.” 

Gil nodded, letting it go. He needed to reach things that would help them. Investigating how corruption got Watkins out of Rikers was something he could put on the backburner. "And how was he? Did he mention Bright at all? Did he give you any information? Anything that can help us?"

“Watkins did show some inclinations, but I’m not at liberty to discuss them. Patient confidentiality.” 

"But surely, seeing the extenuating circumstances could be classified as a case when such facts can be discussed. Watkins is an imminent danger to Bright, and we need to find them." 

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I'd like to go about this the proper way. Have a court order signed, and you'll get the information you need. You know how this works."

The next question escaped Gil's lips before he could stop himself, "Did you, by any chance, give him the information he could have used against Malcolm."

Suddenly Simon was on his feet. "That's it! I don't like what you're implying here, Lieutenant, and quite frankly, I don't have to be here. I'm sorry that Malcolm Whitly is missing. But having dealt with him, myself, it isn't unlikely that he’s made many enemies. I, however, am not one of them. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go." Simon made his way for the door. "And please, do not contact me again. If there is anything you need, you can go through my lawyer." 

When the Lieutenant said nothing, he opened the door and left.

* * *

Simon exited the precinct and heaved in a deep breath. The stale smell of coffee and cop uniforms and weapons were stifling him. It was ironic that not so long ago, he used to spend most of his days in precincts like these. Now, all it made him feel was trapped and in danger. All he could hear was Malcolm Bright's smug "my profile is complete,'' and all he could see were the army of cops pointing guns at him. 

Outed.

Reputation ruined.

Handcuffed and handled like a criminal.

All past collaboration was forgotten.

He took out his phone and dialed Sterling’s number. 

“Sterling.”

“You released Watkins to go after Malcolm Bright?” he rasped the second his lawyer answered.

"Huh? What? What are you talking about?"

“The _police_ just questioned me. They’re saying John Watkins kidnapped Malcolm Bright and asked if I knew anything about it.” Simon hissed back as he made his way to his car.

“And what did you tell them? Why didn’t you call me?” Sterling’s irritated voice came through, and Simon could feel his frown. Sterling wasn’t happy he wasn’t consulted.

“Guilty people get their lawyers. I’m _not guilty.”_

“Mhmm. Did they mention his name at any point in the conversation?”

“What?” Simon removed the phone from his ear, looking at it like it had just bitten him. “No.. no. No one asked about him.” 

“Good. Now, don’t worry. Go back to work, and forget about this.”

“But did _you_?”

“Why do you suddenly care about Malcolm Bright, Simon? Just go to work.”

“Bu--”

_Click—beep beep._

_“Damn it!”_ Simon slammed his hands against the steering wheel. This was a mess. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest. 

_“And who is your client?” Simon raised an eyebrow._

_“Nicholas Endicott--”_

_Simon blinked, interrupting him. "The Nicholas Endicott?"_

_"Yes." Sterling smiled. "There is one rule. You never say no to Mr. Endicott. Oh! And you don't ask why." Simon pursed his lips._

_"Think of it this way Dr. Coppenrath. The way I see it, you can either spend the rest of your life behind bars, like any common criminal, without the job that you love, never seeing the light of day..." Simon paled. "Or you can agree to Mr. Endicott's proposal, and you get everything back."_

_Faced with the reality of his situation, Simon had no choice but to accept. He would be a fool not to. His life was over the minute he lost his daughter. But now, after the NYPD fired him, and the trial hanging like an axe over his head, Simon knew he was done for._

_The question was if his integrity could make room for one more tiny point of misconduct. And if it was for any other person, Simon would have felt guilty accepting that offer._

_But It wasn't a hard ultimatum. It was Malcolm Bright._

_Malcolm Bright, who ruined his plans, ended his career and shattered his life. Malcolm Bright, who destroyed his only coping mechanism after losing his daughter._

_Simon couldn’t wait to return the favor._

_Besides, this way, he could still do good, help people. He could still practice and save others. Malcolm's was one life in the balance of the many others he could help. He was doing the right thing, really._

_The right thing and the price was selling his soul to the devil._

_Simon nodded slowly before getting up and extending his hand. Sterling met him halfway, taking it firmly. They shook on it—a gesture solidifying an agreement that would, on one day, destroy Malcolm Bright._

* * *

JT was out of the observation room and in front of Gil before he could blink. He puffed and swore as he gestured to the chair Simon had sat in. “That asshole was lying through his teeth. Gil, man, why did you let him go?”

Gil looked at him, and his expression was pained, exhausted. The interview had taken a lot of self-control and patience. By the end of it, he felt like he had run a marathon. His muscles ached, and he winced as he got out of his chair. "I know he was," he told his detective. "But if I had pushed him anymore, he would have lawyered up. Now, he's panicking. It looked like he didn't know about Bright." 

“So now we wait for him to make a mistake?”

"Now, we wait..." Gil prayed that Malcolm could wait, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a pain in the neck! I needed to get that interrogation scene right and so it took time. I hope I did it justice :) 
> 
> Malcolm has some hard days ahead- looks like I'll be filling some BTHB boxes soon :D
> 
> As always if you liked it, let me know! Comments make my day <33 
> 
> Thanks for reading <3!!


	4. The Crowbar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was excited and this ended up getting finished ahead of schedule.
> 
> Shoutout to my awesome beta Jameena for polishing this!!! <333

The Crowbar

Time dragged on, and Malcolm was still alone. He passed the time doing the only three things he could.

Rest his mind. Shuffle uncontrollably. And fight the panic that kept surfacing _._

He hoped that Gil would magically show up, but he knew it wasn’t going to happen. Since Eve had moved into the guest room upstairs, Gil’s visits had decreased. He was trying to give them some time to themselves. It would take time before they discovered he was missing. More time to track him here. He just hoped he’d be strong enough to last until they came. 

He must have dozed while waiting because he barely heard the creaking of the floors. The sound of footsteps approaching stirred him from his fitful sleep, the metal latch sliding brought him all the way back to consciousness. He was still crammed in the room, never too comfortable, head slumped against the wall, wrists handcuffed behind his back and numb, and right now a sitting duck for his captor. He was caught by surprise after waiting for so long, and he didn’t have time to prepare himself or plan an attack. 

Suddenly the door opened, and apart from Watkins' silhouette in the doorway, the light invaded the dark room with a blinding intensity that made him groan. Having been in the darkness for so long, the light stabbed at his irises, and reflexively Malcolm squeezed his lids shut. It was a stupid move, and he knew it. He knew he had just wasted his only chance to get out of this. The only chance when he wasn't drugged out of his own mind, the only chance where he could escape.

Watkins seemed to be enjoying himself way too much, cherishing the pathetic look of his victim, and breathing in the scent of his fear and distress. “Hey there, Malcolm! Did you miss me?” He chuckled lightheartedly as he reached into the room and dragged him out. “I had some business to attend to! Now... let’s begin!”

* * *

“Dani, tell me you found something?” Gil asked once he and JT joined her in the conference room. She grabbed her laptop as soon as they arrived. 

Dani bit her lip and nodded. "Actually, yes! You know we followed Watkins’ car for four miles before we lost it. But, we have been monitoring all the CCTVs in all the gas stations along that route, and we just got a hit!"

Gil let out a sharp exhale when he heard the news. After Simon had left this morning, despair had settled over them all. No one had expected him to give any information willingly, but they had expected him to slip, just like that time he did with Bright. 

But Gil was no Malcolm. He may have the cunning and the wit needed to get this job done, but not the keen eyes, the deep psychological understanding, or the talent. He _needed_ Bright to get Bright back. An impossible scenario. 

"This was taken two hours ago in Catskills," Dani told them as she played the video. 

The resolution wasn't high, but it would be enough for an ID. A station wagon stopped in the parking lot, and a hooded man got out and walked into the store.

"But we still can't see his face! How ..." JT started, but Dani put up a hand and told him to 'wait.'

Five minutes later, the man came and loaded two jerry cans of gas. His head darted towards the mounted camera, and when he noticed it, he removed his hood and smiled. John Watkins looked directly into it as if he knew they were watching, as if he were daring them to find him. 

The car appeared to be empty. Malcolm was nowhere to be seen, which yielded two possible explanations. Either John had left him somewhere, or Malcolm was already dead. 

“Son of a...” JT trailed off.

“Dani, do you know where he went next?” Gil asked, and though he tried his best to hide it, his voice shook. 

“Well, it doesn’t look like Bright was with him, which means that Watkins wasn’t on the road when he visited the gas station. He’s probably keeping Bright somewhere nearby.” She ran back to the map before she continued, “We tried to narrow it down to places near the gas station that are remote enough for him to… to keep Bright hidden without raising suspicion.”

"Here," JT pointed at the area on the map, "remote area, near the station, rural. It has to be it."

Dani nodded, "I alerted Troop F, and they are scouring the area until we reach. They'll help us narrow down the search."

"Tell them not to engage until we reach their location. This situation might escalate, and we could lose them. Watkins looks like he wants us to find him," Gil cautioned. He looked at his watch. It was past five already, and if they left now they could reach the area before sunset. "We have no time to lose!" Gil announced as he stood. "Let's go." 

* * *

At first, he tried to fight back, his legs kicking out wildly, hoping to hit his target. John stood just out of reach, securing the pulley he had used to string Malcolm from the ceiling. He watched him squirm and thrash with a patient grin plastered across his face. Malcolm's muscles were already burning, begging for a reprieve that he knew wouldn't come. On the verge of hyperventilation with his body stretched uncomfortably, Malcolm couldn't’ve drawn a full breath if he tried. 

“Quit squirming,” John said. “You’ll tire yourself out!”

And he was right. Soon Malcolm realized that the more he kicked and struggled, the more the metal cuffs cut into his wrists, and the harder it got to breathe. 

"Gaaaah!" Malcolm screamed in anger and frustration, but he stopped moving, realizing that hanging like a dead weight was his best option. Momentum kept him swinging for a few minutes longer, but the strain on his arms was bearable that way. 

Malcolm let his head fall back in exhaustion, gazing at the ceiling as he continued to pant. The only way to ensure he wouldn't pass out was to slow his breathing. Even then, he was feeling lightheaded and dizzy, his brain not receiving the proper amount of oxygen. 

"Good boy," Watkins praised as the sound of Malcolm’s labored breathing echoed off the cabin walls.

“ _Please_ … let me down!” Malcolm gasped, eyes glazed with pain. His voice sounded small and pathetic even to his own ears. 

"Now, why would I want to do that, Little Malcolm? You're always so eager to finish. We've barely even started." Watkins retrieved a small stool lying in the corner and circled his prey. 

Malcolm heard the stool drop behind him and felt John's warm body press against his back as the man climbed up. A dark cloth was draped across his eyes, and Malcolm began to renew his struggles. "No, Watkins! Stop!" 

But John secured the blindfold anyway, and Malcolm’s world was once again bathed in darkness. Panic coursed through him. He needed to be able to see to profile! He wouldn’t be able to get out of this if his only weapons had been stripped from him. He could barely speak, let alone breathe, and now he couldn’t even see. Malcolm felt defenseless, hopeless, and _alone_. John was ten steps ahead of him in every move, and now he had no chance of winning this. He was dangling blindly, a lamb to the slaughter.

The stool was dragged away, and John remarked from across the room, "You know, you could suffocate if you're left hanging too long." Malcolm didn't need the man to tell him he could die of asphyxiation, he could already feel it. His lungs were stretched beyond their working capacity, straining to provide him with enough oxygen and failing miserably. His heartbeat was so loud that it nearly drowned out all other sounds in the room. 

_Almost._

The devil’s voice was always audible. 

“Maybe if you behave, I’ll let you stand on that stool,” John continued.

Malcolm's hand spasmed, but he said nothing, not daring to hope, knowing full well that Watkins was taunting him. Malcolm was prepared to do almost anything to take the pressure off his wrists and arms, but his few functioning brain cells told him that Watkins would never let him. He didn't need his eyes to know that John wore a satisfied smile, he didn’t need them to know the man was relishing every hint of discomfort and pain. Malcolm just _knew._

"Let me think about it,” John chuckled. “You _hang_ in there, Malcolm!"

Malcolm heard the floor creak, and Watkins' steps faded away, leaving him alone again. 

When he was sure that Watkins was gone, Malcolm let his head drop with a pitiful whimper. He'd been strung up for only a short time, but it felt far longer. Cold air chilled a strip of exposed skin on his stomach, where his shirt hitched up at the awkward position. His everything hurt, his arms were twitching uncontrollably with the strain, and his chest was burning as he continued to wheeze. 

Malcolm always prided himself on his high pain tolerance, but he was past his breaking point already. Drugged, deprived of proper rest, of food and water, he was spent before they even began. Before he knew it, he felt the blindfold getting damp, and he sniffed quickly, trying to stop the dam that was threatening to break. He wasn’t there yet. _Not yet._

As the adrenaline slowly left his body along with the surge of energy that accompanied it, Malcolm felt himself getting heavier. He closed his eyes and worked on regulating his breathing, on focusing on anything but the throbbing in his shoulders, but nothing worked. Malcolm was grateful for small mercies when he couldn't fight a wave of oblivion as it finally engulfed him. 

* * *

He came to with a gasp, momentarily forgetting where he was and how he had fallen asleep. The pressure on his lungs was agonizing as he sucked in an unsatisfying breath. Malcolm groaned, shifting his weight, only to let out a whimper as the cuffs dug into the abraded flesh of his wrists. Fresh rivulets of blood tickled paths down his arms, and Malcolm felt an intense urge to wipe at them. 

Malcolm didn’t know how much time had passed or how much longer Watkins intended to leave him there, hanging from a hook in the ceiling, feet dangling high above the floor. Malcolm found himself wishing for the comforts of his previous prison. There, at least, he was able to breathe properly. There, at least, his arms weren’t screaming with the pain of carrying his entire weight, and his shoulders weren’t threatening to give under the relentless pull of gravity. 

And now he was up again, but he was still alone. 

Malcolm had no choice but to wait for whatever John had planned for him, to _hang in there_ as John had told him. 

“You’ve been very quiet, Malcolm. I almost forgot you were there.” Malcolm jerked when he heard the voice. There was no creaking, no indications that John had returned. Had he been watching him the entire time? No, Malcolm _heard_ him leave, so he probably came back at some point while he was passed out. 

Malcolm cocked his head slowly towards the sound, wincing when his sore muscles protested. “I... can’t…breathe…” he rasped desperately, hoping that John would release him.

He didn’t. 

Instead, John dropped something with a heavy thud behind him. The stool. 

He yanked Malcolm's legs who flinched at his touch and flailed until he got his footing on the harsh surface. He almost cried in relief when his lungs fully expanded. Malcolm gasped like a man drowning and continued to heave lungfuls of air as though the luxury might be stolen at any moment. 

Malcolm's legs shook on the stool, unable to fully support him. Now that there was some slack in the chains and less tension on his cuffs, blood rushed painfully through mostly numb hands. His shoulders screamed with the change of position, like an old door's hinges that needed oiling. His whole body ached, but he could breathe. He could breathe, and for now, that was all that mattered. 

Malcolm rested his head in the nook of his left arm and continued to pant, "Gaaah...aah…aah… Thank you.."

John only grunted in response, paying his captive little attention. 

Malcolm was distantly aware of the other man busying himself with some other task, coming and going from the room, each time carrying something heavy. He heard splashing—were they containers of liquid? He couldn’t be sure with the blindfold. He opted to use the time to breathe and regulate his thoughts, to feel his limbs work again, and to think on what to say when Watkins finally focused back on him.

Once he recovered and was breathing somewhat normally, Malcolm stepped on his tiptoes and tried to get the cuffs off the hook. He waited until John left to get another mysterious container to make his move.

It was unsuccessful. 

And before he could try a second time, John was back, and he didn't leave again. 

Forcing his shaking limbs to still, Malcolm tried to use his other senses to guess what Watkins was doing. 

There was a popping sound indicating that the containers were sealed. Watkins grunted as he lifted one of them, and his footsteps were heavy as he walked around the room- it was heavy. He started splashing the liquid all over the place. The sharp smell of volatile gasoline invaded his nostrils, making its way to his head. Malcolm's heart started thundering in his chest. 

If John was doing what Malcolm thought he was doing, then he was screwed, more so than he already was. _Dead_ screwed. His breathing picked up as he tried desperately to get his handcuffs off the hook again, this time not minding that John was still in the room. If John saw or heard him fidgeting, he made no comment. He continued to empty one container after another, totally ignoring him. His lack of care probably meant that Malcolm wasn't going to succeed, no matter how hard he tried. 

"Watkins… Watkins, what are you doing?" Malcolm asked. He wondered how he managed to keep his feet on the stool with his knees shaking so badly. 

“Don’t worry, little Malcolm. I just think this place needs a little — spark!”

“ _No!..._ No, John, you don't have to do this. John.. please listen to me, you're angry! But this… this isn't the way to— ."

"Shut up, or I'll empty that last gallon on you," Watkins threatened.

Malcolm bit off his next response.

Panic at its peak, ears perked to detect every tiny movement, Malcolm braced himself for the sound of a match igniting or a lighter flickering. 

There was no sound of fire. Instead, Watkins grabbed an object off the floor with a metallic scrape. 

"Have you ever been hit with a crowbar, Malcolm?" John asked. Malcolm heard a heavy object woosh by his head. "Nasty things hurt like a bitch."

 _Of course_ , the metallic object was a crowbar. 

Though weird anomalies were evident in Watkins' actions, there was comfort in the fact that some things remained the same. Just like the stabbing grudge he kept for twenty years, now Watkins wanted to mark him with a crowbar. Malcolm had never seen someone take an 'eye for an eye' as seriously as Watkins. He would have rolled his eyes if he weren't scared shitless. 

“So what is all this, another try at making me a killer?” Malcolm asked, trying to get any information he could. 

"No, no, I was wrong about that. See, last time I thought I could make you like me," John explained. "This time it's different. You took everything from me."

"So, this is about revenge?" Malcolm tensed, "I think I liked it better when it was the other way."

“Heh...I was starting to miss your sense of humor, Malcolm.”

Malcolm felt the metal brush against his stomach and flinched. He didn't know whether it was because the metal was like ice on his bare skin or if he was readying himself for the pain that was coming.

Sure enough, Watkins pulled back and took a swing.

The crowbar crashed into Malcolm's stomach. A deafening cry tore from his throat as he folded in on himself, trying to ease the brutality of the blow. His scream tapered off into a fit of coughing. 

Watkins circled him, poking the crowbar at different areas of his body and enjoying the sounds he was making. “How does it feel to be so helpless? To not be in control?” Watkins jeered, “You do _love being in control, don’t you?_ Just like your father.”

“I’m **_not_ ** _…. like him!”_ Malcolm spat the words with all the venom he could muster. 

He didn't hear the second blow when it struck, targeting both calves. He shrieked, and the pain exploded, turning the darkness under the blindfold white. Unfocused, Malcolm momentarily lost his balance, and his feet slipped from the stool. He started swinging as his arms took his weight once more. 

He flailed trying to get his feet back on the chair, but it had tumbled to that floor, and there was no way John would put it back up. Painful synapses were firing all over his body, the deepest aches where metal met muscle and bone. Tendons in his shoulders tore and stretched. Swinging above the ground, his lungs once again struggled to bring in air. Adrenaline flooded his system as he tried to gasp against the pain, gasp for oxygen, but it was all in vain. 

A third strike lashed across his back, similar to the one he had delivered at his house ages ago. It drove all the air out of his lungs, and a hoarse scream ripped out of his throat. His body spasmed, and then he went limp. 

* * *

JT was driving. 

Gil didn’t trust himself behind the wheel. He didn’t even need to tell his team, they just _knew._ The second they reached the garage, JT had offered to go in his car, and Dani had quickly agreed, both of them saying something about it being faster than Gil's vintage car. Gil was grateful. 

The car ride was silent, everyone engrossed in their own thoughts and fears. What if they were too late? Gil’s stomach churned at that thought. Malcolm had cheated death plenty of times already...surely his luck could hold out one more time? It _must_ because Gil wasn’t sure what he’d do if it didn’t. He didn’t even want to think about it. 

He sighed and forced himself to think about other stuff. About Watkins, and how he had escaped. About the mysterious threat Malcolm had told him about right before he disappeared. About Martin Whitly and the woman he kept in the box. The camping trip. About Eve. It was all too much, and his mind could barely keep up. If they found Malcolm, then he wouldn't need to. The kid would figure out this mess, Gil just needed to find him… _safe_. 

The team had spent the entire night working until Gil had shoo-ed them all home to rest. They were no use to Malcolm if they couldn't focus, he had said, and they nodded reluctantly. But Gil had gone home and started his research on the connection between Simon and Martin. When he'd arrived at the precinct the next day, it was clear Gil hadn’t slept, and by the looks of them, he doubted the other detectives had either. Malcolm was now part of their team, and they were all worried about him. 

Gil looked at the people on the streets, going about in their lives, unaware that The Junkyard Killer was once again walking amongst them. For a second, he yearned for that feeling. He wanted to be that ordinary man taking his kid on a walk. He _wanted Malcolm to feel like an ordinary man._ A man not weighed down by years of trauma and pain and rejection. How much more could the kid take before he broke?

Dani answering her phone in the backseat forced him out of his thoughts.

“Powell… mhmm… yes… ET five minutes... WHAT?”

“Dani, what’s happening?” JT asked as he looked at her through the mirror, tensing. 

“They found Watkins’ cabin...but it’s _on fire_." 

Gil stopped breathing. 

* * *

When they reached the cabin, the fire truck was already there. The place was alive with people barking orders, on the phone, inspecting, some just watching. 

Before JT stopped the car completely, Gil and Dani were rushing out. The cabin was alight with flames greedily eating at the wood. A cloud of black smoke and dust loomed over the place. The flames bounced, engulfing the cabin, taunting them, daring them to enter. _Yet no one did_. 

They approached the man in charge who looked like he was freaking out but was trying his best to remain calm and act professionally. " Lieutenant Arroyo, Detective Powell. Please come this way."

“What’s happening?” Dani asked when Gil couldn’t find his voice to speak. 

"The fire broke just as we arrived. We don't understand. It was all quiet. Our team was waiting for you before we breached, but then suddenly, the house was engulfed in flames. The firefighters just arrived, and they're assessing the situation."

"Are they still inside?" JT, who just joined them, asked, "Bright and Watkins?"

“Unclear. At the moment, we are trying to--”

“Sir! Sir! There is someone inside!” One of the men interrupted, waving for them to follow him. “We think he’s the hostage. We saw him through the back window, he’s hanging from the ceiling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was for the BTHB: blindfolded
> 
> Thanks for reading!! If you liked it, leave a comment! They make my day <3


	5. Fire and Brimstone

Fire and Brimstone

_“Sir! Sir! There is someone inside!” One of the men interrupted, waving for them to follow him. “We think he’s the hostage. We saw him through the back window, he’s hanging from the ceiling.”_

"Malcolm! That has to be him!" Gil half-shouted, half-cried. "Get him out, now. _Please_!”

"Yes, Lieutenant, we're doing what we can. The flames are just too high, and it's being accelerated by something," the young firefighter explained just as his colleagues were trying to make their way into the cabin. "It's too dangerous." 

Gil wasn't listening. Malcolm was in there. His kid was in there. " _Bright!!_ " he shouted, and he was running towards the cabin before someone grabbed him firmly… JT? Talking, telling him to leave it to the firefighters. What did that _even mean_? 

Dani was shouting, waving her hands but Gil didn’t hear any of it. He wasn't listening. Bright was in there. His eyes were glued on the cabin as it continued to burn. His kid was in there. Each second was precious, and they were wasting time here talking.

Suddenly everyone around the cabin started running back. They were shouting. Gil wasn’t listening. 

But he could see. 

And he watched with horror-stricken eyes as the cabin roared with flames one last time before it collapsed. 

* * *

_Simon sighed. As much as he liked a challenge, speaking with Watkins was a lost cause. The man was fixated on nothing but Malcolm Bright. It was all he talked about, all he thought about. Somehow, no matter how their conversations began, the man would always find a way to bring it back to the profiler. Having been hurt by the man, too, didn’t make Simon the best person to offer help. Part of him knew that was the point of it._

_Endicott didn’t want Watkins’ inner fire extinguished, he wanted it fed. Simon chose not to think about it, just as he chose not to think about the many other unpleasant tasks he was forced to carry out, in order to gain back his freedom._

_Watkins was watching him, lips curled wickedly, enjoying this. Simon squirmed beneath his unsettling gaze. He took a moment to remind himself that he was in charge before he spoke again._

_“This isn’t about Malcolm Bright. John, it’s about you.”_

_“No. No, you’re wrong. Everything is about Malcolm. You see, he’s my new mission._

_“Mission?” Simon inquired. This was the first time Watkins had spoken of his missions. He’d always said these were for his ears only._

_“I thought he was delivered to me to help me, but I was wrong. He was a test. To test my dedication to my calling. I have to break free from my connection with him. I should have seen it.”_

_“I am not sure I follow.”_

_John Watkins’ face darkened. He straightened in his chair, shrugged. When he finally spoke, his tone was matter-of-fact. “Malcolm Whitly needs to die.”_

* * *

Gil’s world screeched to an abrupt stop. The earth moved but he wasn’t moving with it. It was like he was ripped from this reality and cast into another dimension. A dimension where everything was stuck in slow motion, where he could see and hear and feel and nothing more. 

No, not even that. 

Not feel, not hear. 

Exist.

His ears were ringing and he couldn’t hear a thing. He hadn’t heard a thing for a while. Just watching. Watching with an empty gaze. Watching Dani’s mouth as it opened and closed, shouting. Watching people shout and scream, run, and bark orders. Watching the rubble and the fire as it dwindled and smothered and stopped, leaving in its wake only charred wood and smoke. 

Watching. Couldn’t look away. Watching. Couldn’t even move. Watching.

A state of existing. 

JT was now standing next to him. No, he was moving him. Dani? Where was Dani? He couldn’t see Dani anymore. 

JT gently pushed him back, and Gil wanted to tell him he was trying to move, too--he really was--but he couldn’t. He couldn’t even breathe. He couldn’t do anything.

Gil tried to focus on the other man. JT was saying something over and over again. His eyes were red and tear-stained. Why was he crying? JT had never been one to let his emotions freely show. 

JT kept saying he was sorry, he was sorry. 

Gil wanted to ask what he was apologizing for, but he couldn’t find his voice. 

The fire roared in the distance as it swallowed up what was left of the cabin.

_Malcolm!_

No. That wasn’t Malcolm in there. They were wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. It was a lie. It was all a lie. 

It wasn’t real. Please, someone, tell them it wasn’t real. 

JT tried to move him again, and this time Gil’s hands pushed back. They acted on their own. They pushed JT away, but the larger man wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t leave him, and suddenly Gil was crying. He only knew because he could taste the salty water as they tracked down his cheeks and found their way to his lips. 

Then Dani was there too, holding him. She brushed his tears away and hugged him and slowly he found himself moving with her. He was moving but his mind was still rooted in that spot, the spot where his life had just collapsed before him. 

The car’s backseat door opened and both detectives eased him inside. He should feel better but all he felt was sick. Dani slid in too and had her hands around him. She was talking, murmuring quietly. He just wanted out. 

_No, no, my kid needs me_ . He cried but no one seemed to listen. No one seemed to care. _Please I have to help, let me help! Let me._

Let me... _help._

The tears kept falling silently as he looked at his hands. The hands of a failure. The hands of a father who couldn’t save his kid. 

* * *

JT hadn’t seen Gil act this way since the day Jackie passed.

It had been an unending Tuesday. They were caught in a long investigation that involved a very important cadaver (V.I.C), which always led to many meetings with the higher-ups. Gil had been desperate to go back to the hospital, but being the lead investigator, he couldn’t leave it to JT even though he was more than capable. 

When the meetings were over, Gil had gone to unsilence his phone. JT had watched him register the dozens of missed calls, had watched him put the pieces together to form a puzzle that didn’t quite make sense. When Gil had finally received the news, he had crumbled before him. 

It was an unexpected complication, one of the doctors had said. She had been fine one moment, and the next she was gone. No one expected it. He had never even got to say goodbye. 

It had haunted his lieutenant, the fact that he hadn’t been there for his wife in the last minutes, that he hadn’t looked into her eyes one last time. That when he had kissed her that morning, he didn’t know it would be his last. 

He’d gone into a similar trance that day, losing all grip on reality. JT hoped he’d never have to see his mentor that broken again. 

It was a hope short-lived.

Now, he stared back into those haunted eyes, full of failure and loss and fear, an expression with which JT was all too familiar. 

Dani opted to stay with him, and although the older man didn’t even acknowledge her presence, he seemed to relax when she sat with him. 

Eyes brimming with tears, she nodded to JT, indicating that she could handle this and subtly tipped her forehead toward the _scene._

JT heaved in a long breath and turned back to the cabin, leaving his team in the car. 

Truth be told, he wanted to crumble and fall too, but he couldn’t allow himself the luxury. Not when his team needed him. Someone needed to take control. Someone needed to be level headed. He had to be the eyes and the brain of this team, right now. His heart could mourn his fallen teammate once he caught this killer… _assuming he hadn’t been in the cabin, too_. 

JT was almost sure he wasn’t. 

After the structure collapsed, the smaller fires were easily subdued by the firefighters, and they were working on their extraction. 

Having known where the first _body_ was, they were able to extract it fairly quickly. It was severely burned, barely recognizable--not that JT had even tried to sneak a peek. He’d barely kept his feet under him as he watched the team carry the body and zip it in a black bag. The whole prospect that it was their friend in that body bag made his vision swim and bile burn a path up his throat. 

He’d kill Watkins for this. 

The forensics team had been summoned, and they were examining the place. A few of them were examining the station wagon, taking samples and dusting for fingerprints. Others were looking at the cause of the fire. JT didn’t need anyone to confirm that it was arson. 

The real questions were where Watkins had gone, and why he had set the fire. And the timing--it was almost like Watkins had wanted them to witness it. 

The bastard had looked straight in that camera and smiled. Of course, he wanted them to find him, to track him here. So was his plan to lead them to this cabin just in time to see Bright die?

Although killing Bright like that fit with Watkins’s profile of not actively doing the killing himself, something just didn’t rest well with this theory. 

_And why the fire? Why burn him? Why not crush him like the others. A car crash even worked._

_Unless the purpose was to burn the corpse beyond recognition._

JT went over the last few seconds. He’d seen the back of their hostage before the house collapsed, but it could have been anyone. What if it wasn’t even Bright? What if this had been Watkins’ plan all along?

Bright had said that Watkins wanted him to be his helper, his companion. Last time Watkins came after Bright’s family to cut his ties and set him free. What if this time he took the opposite route? 

Pluck Bright from his life. Kill Malcolm Bright in name only. 

“Call Edrisa Tanaka,” he said to the officer in charge. “This body will come with us.”

* * *

While the team was at the cabin, witnessing it burn to the ground, an old Chevy Express drove by a police checkpoint back to the city. 

The driver lowered his window and cocked his head when he was stopped. The officer asked for his license and registration, and the man supplied them. 

Brad Hill. A forty-something-year-old who worked in a cargo company. The officer looked at him. He looked … _okay._

Hill, blond, clean-shaven and wearing thick-rimmed glasses, looked nothing like the shabby dark-haired, bearded convict they were looking for. This man was good-humored, joked with the officer about the weather, and complained about this shipment being his third that day. 

“Damned boss needed me to do one more shift,” he huffed. “Nothing’s worse than driving for ten hours straight, in weather like this, and at night!”

The officer nodded as he checked the images of Watkins once more and tried to look for any similarities. Granted he did look a bit similar, but what kind of criminal jokes and acts so casual around a cop. He hadn’t so much as glanced nervously when he looked at him. 

The officer, though seeing nothing wrong with the papers, just wanted to be certain. After all, the van was big and Watkins and his hostage could be hiding inside. He asked if he could see the back of the van, a routine check. 

Brad was all too happy to oblige. He got out, casually noted how good it was to stretch his legs after driving for so long, and opened the van to show the officer its contents.

The van was empty. 

Well, it was full of other things but not what the officer was hoping for. 

He swept his flashlight across the interior. There were two carpets rolled together, a couple of chairs, and a small coffee table. All were wrapped in plastic and smelled new. Cargo just like the man had said. Before the officer lowered his flashlight, his eyes caught something in the far end. 

There was a wooden chest, the only object not wrapped in plastic. It was older than the other cargo, and definitely had been used before. An antique? A shiny new padlock had been installed that seemed to clash with the overall aesthetic of it, but he was certainly no Martha Stewart... The officer felt the air around him chill, and he could have sworn the box was breathing. 

What a stupid thought… this wasn’t a horror movie, and Brad Hill wasn’t John Watkins. 

Switching off his light, the officer signaled for the man to close his van. "Sorry for the hassle, Mr. Hill. I appreciate your cooperation."

The other man shrugged, "Hey, we've all got our jobs to do." 

"Ain't that the truth," the officer smirked. He watched the driver hop back in his vehicle. "Have a safe trip, sir."

"Lord willing..." the man said, waving briefly before he drove off.

As the van sped away from the checkpoint and into the heart of the city, John Watkins hummed to the tune on the radio. He shed the fake identity along with the reading glasses, ran a hand through freshly bleached hair, and smiled. 

Their journey had just begun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, there wasn't much of Malcolm in this chapter, for obvious reasons hehehe! 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a comment if you did (or shout at me, it's ok too :P) 
> 
> As always, shoutout to Jameena <33 for helping mee so much on this one and being an awesome cheerleader! <3


	6. The Box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, MEGA thanks to Jameena, I love you <333 
> 
> This chapter marks my BTHB box for 'bound and gagged.' 
> 
> I think I should put TW: for claustrophobia. Malcolm's not having a good time (hehehhe)

The Box

Malcolm was floating in a sea of nothingness, his eyes too heavy to open, his body not his to command. Above him, Martin was speaking, as he tucked him into bed. 

“Hush now, my boy. Shhh, it’s okay,” he cooed. “Let the drug work. It’ll be okay. Just relax and sleep.”

 _Mhmm. Dad, no. Stop._ The words formed on the tip of his tongue, but they were so heavy and his mind was drifting like a ship at sea.

As the chloroform cloth draped over his nose again, Malcolm panicked and tried to fight it. _No, Dad! You’re hurting me!_

But his mouth was full of cotton, and no sound came out. 

Martin brushed the stray hairs from his face fondly and whispered in his ear. “Remember, Malcolm. You’re my son. We’re the same.” 

_We’re the same._

The words bounced and echoed in his mind like a symphony until they faded, replaced by the deafening silence. 

Malcolm knit his brows and moaned as he eased back into the world of the living. He was aware of the soft rise and fall of his chest--such a contrast to his head, which thrummed to life like it housed a medieval blacksmith workshop. 

As consciousness bled in, so did his pain. He could feel it in his shoulders, stomach, calves, and back; throbbing, and radiating heat. He tried to collect his thoughts. 

The last thing he remembered was being in the cabin, hanging from his arms while Watkins hailed blow after blow on him with the crowbar. He winced at the remembered pain and the sense of hopelessness. He guessed he’d fainted from the pain and lack of oxygen, and he was grateful for the small mercy. Now that his body throbbed, he wished to go back under, escape this pain again. It was better that way. 

Watkins must have released him from that ceiling hook soon after. He was on his side now. He didn’t want to face reality just yet, and the longer he remained in this limbo, the longer he wouldn’t have to. Malcolm didn’t move, didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t even shift. He remained as he was, breathing in and out, content that his lungs were working at their capacity. 

Trying not to give away that he was fully awake, Malcolm strained his ears to listen to his surroundings. He half hoped that Watkins wasn’t there watching him. 

He could only hear himself breathing… but there was the faint sound of a car engine. And now that he heard it, he could feel the growl of the road vibrating through the carpeted surface. He was no longer in the cabin. They were on the move again. _Shit._

His eyes snapped open. It was pitch black. Malcolm couldn’t feel the pressure of the blindfold on the bridge of his nose, nor the knot that rested on his hair. He wasn’t blindfolded anymore. It really was _that_ dark. 

Malcolm blinked hard a couple of times until his eyes adjusted to the darkness, but it didn’t help identify where he was. He could just make out the edge of something mere inches from his face--wood by the smell of it. His heart began racing. 

He shifted, and that’s when he realized that his limbs were jammed in the uncomfortably tiny space. He tried to move his hands, but they caught on his feet. He tried again, and achieved the same result. 

Malcolm panicked.

Fully awake, adrenaline pumping, Malcolm tried to call out but found that he couldn’t. Too soon, he recognized the pressure of the duct tape circling his head--he was gagged. 

He couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t think. 

Part of him had already worked out where he was--an eye for an eye--but he wasn’t sure he could handle the horror of this reality just yet.

There had to be something he was missing, some exit he just needed to find. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. He struggled to move his hands again, but he couldn’t even raise them up enough to pick at the tape. 

It took longer than it should have for him to realize his body had been folded in on itself in the most economic use of the space. His knees were wedged between the wall and his chest. His hands rested by his feet, the loop of the too-tight cuffs weaved through the bindings on his ankles and thighs. His predicament made it impossible to even bang on that wall in front of him. It gave him no momentum or leeway to use his feet either. 

Malcolm was utterly incapacitated, bound, and gagged in this tiny place. 

Tiny wooden place. 

He was most certainly in a wooden trunk…

Malcolm's breath stuttered and hitched, puffs of air rushing uneasily from his nose.

He was in a box…

Watkins had put him in a box. 

_No no no no no no no_. 

Malcolm frantically tried to regulate his breathing, hoping the hammering of his heart would follow suit. Nothing could slow the building panic, though. All he could see was darkness. All he could _feel_ was anxiety tightening like a band around his chest _._

He was trapped. Trapped, and he couldn’t get out. 

The more he struggled to get out, the smaller and smaller the box felt. It was as though the sides were shrinking, pressing in around him. 

_He had to get out._

“Help! HELP!” he tried to scream, but all that came out were incoherent and inaudible noises. The tape wrapped snugly around his head and proved unyielding against his efforts. 

Malcolm struggled senselessly against his bonds and screamed even when he knew that it would achieve nothing. 

Panic and fear took over and he was no longer Malcolm Bright, brilliant criminal profiler for the NYPD. He was Malcolm Whitly, frightened ten-year-old boy, facing his deepest fear.

And that little boy didn’t understand that fighting was useless. That little boy wept and struggled and yelled until he couldn’t anymore. Until he was drained. Until he lost all hope. 

He rested his head back on the floor of the trunk and cried silently.

* * *

Malcolm was quiet, blue eyes glassy and empty as he stared straight ahead. It was just like that time he thought he’d bleed out after Watkins had stabbed him. 

He dissociated. It felt safer that way, his mind was wandering into a place where nothing mattered. 

He barely registered the engine cutting off or the sound of the car door as it slid open. 

A rough knock on the box brought him back. He blinked sluggishly as another knock followed, the noise deafening after so long a silence. He would have huddled into himself if he weren’t already crammed. 

“How are you feeling in there, little Malcolm?” Watkins’ good-natured voice called through the lid. “Are you up?”

When Malcolm failed to respond, something slammed into the trunk with such force that it ricocheted off of an outer wall. Malcolm yelped weakly behind the tape, head jarring around the closed space.

Apparently, it was enough to indicate that he was awake, and John chuckled happily. Malcolm felt shame and indignation flush his cheeks. He hated how scared and vulnerable he sounded, and he hated how John was so obviously relishing his fear.

“Yes, awake. Good, I’d hate to repeat myself. I asked how your little prison was? Not too comfortable is it?... Did you think about that when you locked me in that night? That it was too small for an adult. That it would feel so _suffocating?_ ” 

Watkins’ glee was slowly morphing into bitter anger. It was all the warning he got before Watkins slammed the box again making Malcolm flinch with an undignified whimper. Part of him was ashamed at how easily the move scared him. For once, Malcolm was thankful he was gagged. 

Like a switch, John’s anger subdued, and he fell back into his relaxed demeanor. “Now, listen. We are about to pass by a checkpoint. The nice officer might want to check the vehicle. Apparently, there’s a killer on the loose!”

Malcolm’s heart started racing.

“Now, I can always drug you. That bottle of chloroform is still half full, but I want us to get past that. I want to build a relationship of trust. So what I want from you, is to stay real quiet. Can you do that for me, little Malcolm?”

Malcolm almost laughed. The idea that John wanted him to stay put and not give them away seemed laughable. Why on earth would he agree to do that?

Unless...

“And as a little incentive to keep you well behaved,” John continued, confirming his suspicions. “I promise you I won’t kill the poor guy. He’ll be checking the van, his back to me, unprepared. I, on the other hand,” Malcolm heard Watkins cock his gun, “will be _very prepared.”_

_Of course._

Malcolm would have screamed with desperation if he could. Once again, Watkins was using the life of an innocent person to keep him in line. Logically, he knew that if Watkins harmed any officer, he’d cast a shining beacon on their pursuit. Besides, he knew for a fact that there would be more than one officer, and attacking one would be suicide.

And yet, Malcolm would never take that chance. No matter how much he wanted out, he would never risk anyone’s life for it. 

He couldn’t be responsible for any more victims. Twenty-three lives weighed heavy enough. 

Somewhere above him, Watkins laughed. “Seems like we have a deal. I don’t hear you arguing. Great!”

Malcolm heard Watkins jump out of the vehicle, close the door and start driving again. 

Not too long after, the car slowed down again, and Malcolm strained his ears to hear what was happening. He could faintly make out the sound of Watkins laughing, once again surprising him with his acting skills. 

It made sense, though. Crude as he was sometimes, Watkins was as smart as the Surgeon. One might argue that he was like a chameleon, killing under the very noses of the NYPD for twenty years. 

The door slid open again and Malcolm held his breath as he heard the flick of a flashlight. A beam of light rested on the box, penetrating the pinhole openings in the wood. The sudden flashing of light stirred Malcolm--he inhaled sharply and squeezed his eyes shut. 

His heart drummed loudly as he waited, afraid that his sudden movement had alerted the officer to his presence. Several long seconds passed before the light flicked off. 

He heard the officer’s apologetic, “Sorry for the hassle, Mr. Hill. I appreciate your cooperation.

Watkins said, "Hey, we've all got our jobs to do." 

And then the door slammed shut with a booming finality. 

They weren’t exposed. 

The officer was safe. 

An exhale of relief and desperation escaped him as he rested his head on the floor again and closed his eyes. 

* * *

The drive from the cabin to the precinct was a long one. JT knew that it made no sense, but he felt the road stretch before him. 

Gil was asleep, or so JT hoped. The older man had closed his eyes when there were no more tears left to shed, and he hadn’t opened them since. Dani was still sitting next to him, staring out the window in silence. 

JT hadn’t shared his suspicions with them. He couldn’t afford to give them hope only to watch it get crushed again if he were wrong. After all, both he and Dani had seen his back, and he could’ve sworn that man looked like Bright. Same height, physique, hair color, and all. 

It was better to wait until Edrisa confirmed his theory. JT’s heart lurched; the thought of asking the medical examiner to take charge of this body’s autopsy weighed heavily on him. 

He knew how much Edrisa loved the profiler. To ask her to examine this body was the worst type of torture he could imagine. Call it selfishness or paranoia, but JT wanted to be certain beyond a doubt, and he wouldn’t trust anyone else with this job.

They reached Gil’s house first. JT had texted Tally on the way, and she was already there. They couldn’t leave him alone. Not like this. Not yet. 

He offered to drop Dani at her flat, too. After a few minutes of arguing, she caved, promising to rest up for a few hours and rejoin him at the precinct. 

It was almost three in the morning when he called Edrisa. JT really didn’t want to wake her up, but the medical examiner claimed she was already awake. She said she knew they were going to rescue the profiler, and that she had been anxiously awaiting their call. 

JT didn’t want to tell her the news on the phone, so he only asked her to come urgently. Part of him guessed that she already knew.

Unlike the rest of them, Edrisa didn’t even cry when he told her about the fire. The ME was uncharacteristically distant and professional as though he hadn’t been speaking of their friend and colleague. She listened to his story impassively, nodding when he explained his suspicions, and briefly glanced at the body bag resting on the examination table. 

It wasn’t until she tried to get up and her legs betrayed her that JT knew she was feigning strength in the face of tragedy. Her voice was thick when she assured him that she was fine, but her hands shook when she reached to unzip the bag. When she saw the burnt corpse, her hands flew to her mouth, and JT saw the tears brimming in her eyes then. 

Nevertheless, Edrisa was determined to be the one to do it, and she recovered quickly. She thanked the detective for trusting her and promised to give them the news as soon as she found any. JT couldn’t contain his admiration for the woman before him. He was asking too much, but she didn’t even hesitate before she agreed.

He went back to his desk and started looking over the case files. JT knew that he should’ve gone back home, rested a bit. Edrisa would have to compare dental records to get an identity and that took time, but the thought of him leaving felt so treacherous. _He needed to be here._

Plus, Edrisa had promised that she could get an initial autopsy report ready in about four hours. He’d hoped they could find something by then.

Now, all he had to do was wait. 

* * *

As they drove away from the checkpoint, Malcolm heard Watkins laugh and cheer in the cabin of the truck. He felt nauseous knowing he’d contributed to that man’s joy. When the car stopped, he expected Watkins to return, but he didn’t. 

He was left to the thin air and the silence. Time dragged on. If Watkins needed to travel somewhere under the radar, it made sense to hide him in this manner. Malcolm had to remind himself that this was temporary, or he’d lose his mind. 

He’d already had two panic attacks since he had woken up. A third might cause him to pass out.

Once again he found himself on the verge of tears, but this time it was for a different reason. 

_Guilt._

Images of the girl in the box kept invading his mind. Eve’s sister. The girl he saw and hadn’t helped. How long was she trapped before he found her? How much longer did his father keep her there? Did he keep her drugged the entire time? Did she feel this suffocated, or was she mercifully asleep, blissfully unaware of her prison? 

And the girl had a name. 

Sophie Sanders. 

_Eve’s sister._

Maybe John had his own vendetta, angry about Malcolm locking him in the dark. Maybe this was the most convenient method to move him under Gil’s watchful eyes. Maybe.

But for Malcolm, this was his penance. His much-deserved punishment for abandoning Sophie, for not helping her sooner. He was the reason behind Eve’s pain and trauma. If he had just _helped Sophie,_ then maybe he’d never have crossed paths with John Watkins. 

Yes, this was nothing more than what he deserved.. Now, he just had to endure.

Malcolm jumped when the cargo door clattered open. 

“You know, I was lucky that the cops came for me soon after. I couldn’t stay in that _box,_ ” Watkins announced as he hopped in the trailer again. “It still baffles me. How did you get out of the cuffs that night, Malcolm? You were half dead with the blood loss. I underestimated you.”

Watkins grunted, and Malcolm felt a thud near the head of the trunk where Watkins had probably sat down. 

“I thought severing your ties with your family would unleash your potential, but I was wrong. Sacrifice wasn’t one of your trials. Your family is what fuels that feral animal in you. Your feisty mother, sweet little Ainsley, and that beautiful girlfriend of yours.” 

Malcolm’s hand started to tremble. He didn’t want Watkins anywhere near his family.

“You’re too quiet,” John said. “It’s no fun when you don’t talk back, act like a smartass. Are you sure you don’t want to say anything? Beg the Lord’s mercy, Malcolm, and maybe I will take you out.”

Malcolm groaned and mumbled behind his gag the second he heard the word “out”. He knew Watkins wasn’t going to let him out anytime soon, but it was hard not to take the bait. 

“What’s that? Speak up, boy,” Watkins taunted. “Oh, I _forgot..._ Well, silence is a virtue.”

Watkins must have pushed himself up then, because Malcolm felt the trailer rock with the weight shift. 

“I was really lucky that night, Malcolm,” John said. “but no one is coming for you.” He drummed his fingers across the lid. “It's only you and me, now, and I’m the one who decides when to let you out.”

Malcolm heard Watkins’ footsteps moving away, and he was struck with the sudden realization that Watkins was leaving him again, this time indefinitely. Malcolm twisted and jerked against his restraints, called out desperately to John through the gag. 

All he got in return was: “Not yet.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Sorry the updates on this fic aren't as fast as my usual (Life is a bit hectic and my final school deadlines are approaching! But I promiseee I'm working on the updates as fast as I can! <3)
> 
> If you liked it, please leave a comment :D they brighten my day!


	7. Am I your next mission?

Am I your next mission? 

Malcolm heard the key turning in the padlock, and his eyes snapped open. The next thing he knew, the lid of the trunk opened and fresh air rushed in, replacing the stifling smell of sweat and tears.

"Little Malcolm," John cheered. "You made it!"

Malcolm winced, eyes struggling to adjust to the light after so much darkness. The overhead light in the vehicle was faint, but it helped him make out the blurred silhouette of his captor. Above him was… _Watkins? It had to be._

The man had bleached and cut his hair, shaved his beard and mustache. It made him look younger, an average man, unrecognizable. John seemed to have noticed Malcolm’s reaction because he chuckled. 

“Like the new look?” he asked, running a hand through his hair. “I had to change it while you were hanging in the cabin. A fresh new start--for the both of us.” 

Malcolm's eyebrows shot up in confusion.

Watkins took out his pocket knife and crouched threateningly over the edge of the trunk. Malcolm carefully tracked the knife’s descent, crying out behind the tape when John cut the bindings around his feet. 

The process of getting him out was tricky, and Malcolm wondered dully how Watkins had managed it with him unconscious. After several grunts and shifts and curses on John's part and shivers and whines and whimpers on his, Malcolm finally found himself stretched out on the vehicle's floor.

After what felt like hours in that box, his body was vigorously protesting the change in position, and every cell in his body ached. Blood rushed back into numb and cramped limbs, and Malcolm tried not to writhe at the painful sensation of a thousand pins and needles as his body came back online. To his shame, tears trickled down his face, and he looked anywhere but at John.

Watkins used the pocket knife once more, working on Malcolm’s gag. He was careful, not even nicking the delicate flesh of his cheek as he worked through the layers of tape around his head. Malcolm winced as the tape was yanked, taking some of his hair with it. Free to breathe, he gasped and took huge gulps of air. He ran his tongue over his chapped lips but didn’t say anything. He was like a ragdoll in John’s arms, too numb to control his limbs, too hoarse to object, letting Watkins move him as he wished.

When he was done, Watkins looked him over once before he jumped out of the car, locking him inside. Malcolm didn’t so much as lift his head when he saw Watkins leave. He was aware of how pathetic and tired he must have looked for Watkins to leave him as he was, knowing he wouldn’t attempt anything. He noticed that his body was shivering. Whether it was because of the pain, the cold, or the fear, he knew not. 

Malcolm cast his eyes at the trunk he was kept in. He laughed bitterly when he realized that it was the one he kept by his bed. It was ironic, really. Years ago, Gabrielle had suggested that keeping that chest in his loft might help him overcome his irrational fear of the girl in the box, help him accept that she wasn’t real. 

Now it turned out that she was, indeed, _very real._ And the box he bought to escape his trauma ended up being a kind of prison, itself. 

A few minutes later, Watkins came back carrying some supplies. He dropped beside Malcolm and slowly cradled his head on one knee to help him to a bottle of water. Malcolm cringed at the deep ache that came with movement, but he gulped the water greedily, relishing the moisture on his lips. Apart from the cup of water he’d sipped on before Watkins had strung him up from the ceiling, he’d had nothing else to drink. He couldn’t remember when he’d had anything to eat, either. 

As if Watkins had been reading his thoughts, food came right after the water. It was plain thin soup, probably chicken broth that Watkins kept in a Thermo cup. To Malcolm, though, it was better than he could have hoped for.

After so long without food and water, and after his horrendous time in the box, Malcolm was so grateful that he didn't care who was doing the feeding or where that soup came from. It might have even been drugged, but that didn't matter to him at the moment. He felt the liquid fill him with a warmth that spread to his extremities. It was the only shred of comfort he'd had since Watkins had taken him again, and Malcolm ached for it. 

He was already feeling nauseous after a few mouthfuls, and he turned his head to the side when Watkins brought the cup to his lips once more. He was starving _still_ , but Malcolm knew that as desperate as he was, this much food on _his_ empty stomach was a very, very bad idea. 

"Very well, then." Watkins capped the cup, "Next time you're starving, remember that you turned your nose on the Lord's gracious meal."

Dazedly, Malcolm watched as Watkins got up and left, locking him in alone once more. 

The warm food and water made the shivering lessen, and slowly, the needles all over his body subdued, leaving in their wake the original injuries from his time before the box.

His shoulders were throbbing, ligaments probably torn from the strain of carrying his weight. His wrists were rubbed raw and bloodied. He could feel the bruises from the crowbar itching their way to leave marks on his skin. But his left ankle was pulsing in time with his heart, and he could feel the pain like electricity jolting through his foot. That pain, and the way his left ankle had taken the brunt force of the blow, Malcolm was sure it was a fracture at best--maybe it was even broken. He cursed. 

He realized how royally screwed he was. His cuffs weren’t bolted to the floor this time, but Watkins probably hadn’t seen the need to. While his other injuries were tolerable, escaping with his leg in this condition would be a miracle. 

Malcolm couldn't just open the door and dash out. He wouldn't even be able to attack Watkins now or overpower him. Sweet talking Watkins was also a no-go; it hadn't worked before, and it wouldn't work now. Most importantly, he had no idea where he was.

The trained FBI agent in him was trying to think of a way out, to take this chance and figure an escape. Yet, part of him was just so relieved to be out in the open again, on his back, breathing normally. He was almost content staying as he was. It was the first time in so long that his hands weren't cuffed painfully behind his back or hanging from a hook. His stomach was full, and he wasn't parched. Malcolm was so _damned_ tired. He just wanted this all to end. He wanted to sleep, to really rest without being drugged or passing out from the pain. Maybe he could think clearer once he was rested... 

Watkins wouldn’t have risked leaving him, if he had a chance of escape. Malcolm was very predictable, he thought, as he closed his eyes and drifted off. 

* * *

_“Malcolm Whitly needs to die.”_

_"Die?" Simon mused and looked at his patient, who seemed euphoric after sharing his new purpose. "Do you think that will solve your problems?"_

_"Listen, Doc!" Watkins brought up a hand. "I don't want your help. I'm here because I have to be, not because I want to be, so enough with these mind-reading tricks."_

_“Still, it wouldn’t hurt if you listened to me, would it?” Simon probed. “After all, you have nowhere else to be.”_

_The gruff man rolled his eyes and sighed. He motioned for Simon to share his thoughts._

_“I think you feel this connection to Malcolm because you share a lot in common, not because you want to kill him.”_

_Watkins laughed, “I’m not like him. He betrayed his father. He’s a cop. I stayed true to my calling.”_

_"But you are similar, and you know it, John. Both of you felt abandoned by your own parents. Your mother left you, his father used to drug him, almost killed him…"_

_Watkins grunted and said nothing. Seeing it as a sign of acceptance, Simon continued, "Both of you were raised to hate your parents, despise them for what they did, for who they were. But you were kids, and you loved your parents, and all you wanted was their love in return--"_

_“So little Malcolm wants his daddy’s love?” Watkins tasted the words in his mouth, “Nice.”_

_Simon frowned, unhappy with the interruption. "So you see, your connection to Malcolm Bright might be far deeper than you wish to believe. People tend to gravitate toward others with similar trauma. Deep inside, you feel like you share similar experiences. That is why you didn't kill him the first time you met him. You wanted his approval, his help. What you need right now is--"_

_"Hmm…" Watkins interrupted again, clearly a new plan forming in his mind. "Soon, I'll be reunited with little Malcolm, Lord willing, and this time, I won't fail."_

* * *

The Lord had willed that he and Malcolm be reunited again, and John couldn't have been more blessed. He had been granted a second chance to right his wrongs.

He’d spent every waking moment in prison plotting, and his fellow inmates had thought he was pathetic. Watkins snorted. _Look who’s laughing now_ . Granted, he ended up changing most of his plans after speaking to the _good doctor_. But still, those fantasies of revenge were what kept him sane during his imprisonment.

Now, he was back on the streets, free to continue his mission. He had evaded the cops more than once, and he had Malcolm, too. Nothing could go wrong now.

And the Lord’s blessings were many. The night’s sky was a cloak that hid their movements, dark, cloudy. There was no moon or stars to light the way or give them up. The world was keeping them safe, hiding them from prying eyes. Before the first streaks of light broke that darkness tomorrow, they would be hidden again. 

He glanced once more at the angry messages on his burner phone before throwing it on the ground and crushing it. It was true that he agreed to these people's plans, but only to gain access to Malcolm. But now that he did, he had his own plans.

He waited outside, checking to see if Malcolm would attempt to escape if left alone. When Malcolm didn’t appear, John relaxed and left to make preparations for his _guest._

When he returned, some twenty minutes later, he saw Malcolm just as he left him, sprawled on the floor, sleeping, body shaking from the cold. 

Now, he knew how to control Malcolm, how to keep him in check. So long as the boy cared about other people, he could be persuaded to submit, and soon enough, he would follow in John’s footsteps. It was like the doctor said: he and Malcolm were the same. It made him realize that his initial assessment of the boy wasn’t wrong, after all. He just had to make him see it.

Watkins would be smart this time, he would break him piece by piece, show him that at his core, he just wanted his father’s approval. He felt so powerful as he looked at Malcolm, helpless as he was, under his thumb. Watkins could do anything to him. He could destroy him so easily, wrap his hands around his neck while he slept, and _crush_ that windpipe. The thought filled him with euphoria. 

Malcolm's left foot was more swollen than when he last inspected it. John figured he was a bit too rough with the crowbar... more than he intended. It was good, though, now the boy had more reason to stay put. He reached out and touched it, just briefly pressing the inflamed flesh. Malcolm whimpered, twitching in his hold, and his breathing hitched. His eyes fluttered open twice, before closing again.. 

John knelt next to him and took one of Malcolm’s wrists in his hands. “Let me have a look at those,” John said as he raised it. The cuffs clinked when he did, and he inspected the places where they cut into skin and drew blood. 

"Wake up now," he said, digging his fingers into the wounds there, causing them to bleed again. 

Malcolm let out a broken sob and pulled his hands away. "Aaah… _Stop it_!" 

Malcolm was wide awake now, alert, as he pushed himself up, eyes searching for an escape Watkins guessed. 

“Where are we?” Malcolm demanded, chest rising and falling frantically. 

“In a special place,” Watkins winked. “Just for you.”

Malcolm frowned, his shrewd eyes studying him in a way that made John uneasy. He hated when the brat did that. 

“So you aren’t planning to kill me?” he asked eventually. “What changed?”

“I never planned to kill you, Malcolm,” John shrugged. “I just let you believe it,” he said, tapping his finger against his temple.

“Mind tricks...,” a shadow of that smug smile that Watkins hated so much crept upon Malcolm’s face. “Is that why you blindfolded me? So I wouldn't know?” 

Watkins shrugged again. 

“Where are we… _John_?” Malcolm asked, his voice gaining confidence. Last time he thought he’d figured everything out, but he didn’t see a stab to the gut coming. 

Apparently, the kid never learned his lesson. 

Watkins took Malcolm's swollen foot in his hands, and then he squeezed it.. Malcolm's surprised howl of pain was a satisfying reminder of who was in control. He released the pressure, but kept his hold as a warning. 

“I could do something about it--patch it up for you,” Watkins offered, “or I can break it all the way. Whatever it takes for you to obey me.”

"Not gonna happen," Malcolm bit out between clenched teeth.

It was a beautiful sight. 

"Perhaps," John mused. "But I'm confident in my mission." That psychologist said they were the same, and John would show Malcolm in time. He _would_. 

Before Malcolm had the chance to reply, Watkins’ raised a fisted hand and brought it down on his foot with all the force he could muster.

Malcolm choked, and his mouth opened in a silent scream. 

“Remember, Malcolm, you will obey me. I’ll make sure of it.”

* * *

It was almost ten at night when Nicholas Endicott entered the Milton house. The housekeeper had asked him to wait inside as she called for Jessica. He apologized for coming in unannounced and waited patiently for his hostess to appear. 

When his phone rang, he answered with slightly more irritation than usual at the interruption. “I’m in the middle of something,” he said. 

Endicott caught the slide tremor in Sterling’s words as his voice came down the line. "He didn't do as he was told. The target wasn't left in the cabin like we instructed. He’s avoiding my calls. How would you want me to proceed?"

Endicott frowned, "I pay people, so I don't have to worry about these details."

“I understand,” Sterling said, “but I felt that this was important.”

“It _is_ ,” Endicott bit out. “The fire?”

“It happened. But earlier than we agreed. They just managed to put it out. He used another body… one of ours.”

“Are you sure?”

"The coroner took the body back for analysis, but it'll go through our lab."

"Mhmm," Endicott scoffed. "And the boy is in the wind?"

“I’m afraid so...”

“Mhm.. I don’t care what happens to him, now. The police have their hands full with this situation.. Just make sure nothing traces back to me. I trust you’ll do what’s necessary?”

"Yes, sir."

"And make sure the message reaches the father. Tell him it's his last warning. If he doesn’t keep his mouth shut, then his pretty daughter can be next." 

“...o..k.”

Endicott looked up when he heard the sound of heels approaching. "Now, if you'll excuse me." He closed and pocketed his phone just as the door opened.

Endicott looked up at the elegant frame of Jessica Whitly as she finally appeared. The woman was as delicate as ever, dressed as a true Milton would. Endicott didn't expect to see her in any other state. The woman had always dealt with trauma gracefully.

He stood when she entered and offered her a sad smile. "Jessica, I came to check if they had any news on Malcolm. Do you need anything?"

"Nicholas," she greeted him, her lips trembled slightly, eyes carrying so much pain. "We still don't know anything."

“And are the police doing their best? Working this case as they should? Or do I have to make calls?” he asked, leading her to the nearest chair.

“No, Gil is family. Detective Powel called a few hours ago… they had a lead--some Cabin in the woods. I’ve heard nothing from them yet.”

“Malcolm is resourceful. Don’t worry, Jess.”

"Oh, he is. My son is a survivor." Her smile wavered as a tear rolled down her face. "Tell me my son will be okay."

Endicott touched her cheek and wiped away the tear. "He will be okay, and rest assured that all my resources will be at your disposal. Anything to get him back safely." 


	8. The ECT Treatment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for the BTHB box: Electrocution.

The ECT Treatment

They were back where it all started.

They were back in that secret room Watkins kept him in months ago. Malcolm was lying on the concrete floor, under the house.

The floor was just as cold, just as unyielding. The metal cuffs dug at his wrists, limiting his movement, chaining him to the ground just like they did once before. 

Heart racing, Malcolm reached for his side, checking for a bleeding wound. A sigh of relief escaped his lips when he found himself in one piece. It was one less thing to worry about. 

Malcolm eased back to the floor, despite his miserable situation, saving his energy for when Watkins returned. He knew if he screamed no one would hear him, if he tried to pull at his chains, they would not give. 

Malcolm closed his eyes, about to drift back to sleep, when a very faint whimper made him stir. Thinking his lack of sleep and stressed mind were behind that sound, Malcolm ignored it. But when the sound echoed again, bouncing off the walls in a haunting fashion, he couldn’t dismiss it. 

Grunting, Malcolm got his knees under him and surveyed the room. Unlike last time, there was no huge construction-grade lamp lighting the room. 

There was nothing. 

The place was empty even though he was positive he had heard something… _someone._

“Hello? Anyone there?” he rasped out, noting how dry his throat was. 

Stifling silence answered him for a few seconds before he heard it again. A muffled cry.

Were they in pain? Were they gagged?

“Where are you?” he called out, looking frantically around him again. “ _Hello_ ? Are you _okay?_ ” 

When he looked at the door again, he startled. Watkins was standing there, smirking. 

But he wasn’t alone. 

Malcolm opened and closed his mouth, trying to speak but nothing came out. All he could do was stare ahead at the person in his hold. She was wearing a delicate white dress that made her body glow. 

An angel… his angel. 

Her blonde hair was loosely hugging her trembling form. All Malcolm could do was stare into those beautiful blue eyes which were overflowing with fear. 

_Eve_. 

“Leave her alone!” he growled at Watkins and pulled at his chains. Eve yelped weakly behind her gag and started crying. 

Watkins remained unaffected, toying with the same pocket knife he used to stab Malcolm. When he brought it to Eve’s face, her eyes widened in terror. 

“ _Stop_ ,” Malcolm shouted. He searched for anything to get him out of the cuffs, any weapon to use. Unlike last time, there were no tools at his disposal. The concrete floor was bare. 

“Looking for something?” Watkins taunted, sheathing his knife and pulling a hammer from his waistband. Malcolm’s fear quickly morphed into determination. He’d break his own hands again if he had to, to reach Eve. 

There was no question about that, and both men knew it. 

Watkins dropped the hammer, and Malcolm pounced on it like a lion would its prey. The chains went taught.

Malcolm extended his feet as much as he could, but the hammer was _inches_ out of reach. It was intentional. Malcolm’s heart filled with dread at what Watkins’ plan was.

“Watkins! _Please. Please … don’t hurt her._ I’ll do anything. _Please,”_ he begged.

The knife was back in Watkins’ hands and Eve’s gag was yanked off. She started screaming, crying for him, begging Malcolm to help her. 

Malcolm was crying too. He didn’t care what Watkins did to him anymore, he didn’t think of escaping. He just wanted Eve safe. He stretched and strained his limbs to grab at the hammer even though he _knew_ he would never reach it. 

“I told you, Malcolm,” John cooed over their cries. “Bad things happen when you snoop. You shouldn’t have gone to that junkyard. None of this would have happened.” 

In one swift motion, John sliced Eve's throat the same way he did Shannon’s. 

“NOO!” Malcolm screamed. He watched, petrified, as her lifeless body hit the ground with a thud and his world shook with the impact. He watched with terror as the floors of the basement were once more soaked with blood- Eve’s blood this time. 

“No…” he whispered brokenly. “No..”

He didn’t notice when Watkins approached him. Fingers curled into his hair and Malcolm’s head was yanked up and back. Watkins was savoring the look of pain in his eyes, enjoying the despair and the tears that kept falling. 

“I told you, Malcolm. I won’t touch your family,” he stated, making his way to the door. “But I can always use those whom you love. Maybe that old cop will be next.”

The threat broke the trance. “Watkins, wait,” Malcolm implored, pulling at his restraints with renewed energy.

Watkins mused. “What was his name? _Ah_ ! _Gil Ar-ro-yo_ ,” he drew the name out darkly. “Wait here. I’ll be back Malcolm.” 

“Wait, wait, no... NOO!” Malcolm screamed. 

He jolted awake with a loud gasp. 

Malcolm’s chest heaved, feeling as if the weight of the world rested on it. He was trembling, drenched in sweat, throat raw from screaming, and completely disoriented. It took him several minutes before he assessed his condition, separating dream from reality. 

Because it felt too real. It was so terrifyingly real that part of him wasn’t sure if it had happened or not. 

_But it hadn’t happened_ , his logical side emphasized.

It hadn’t happened, because he was not in the basement; he was in a small trailer. He was not chained to the floor. Instead, he was sitting in a chair. It didn’t happen because Eve’s-- Eve’s lifeless body wasn’t anywhere to be found. 

No, he was completely alone in his new dimly lit prison. 

He must have dozed off since Watkins had last left him. It had been hours before Malcolm’s body gave in and he fell asleep. Watkins wasn’t back yet. 

They were in another junkyard, just like the one where they had their first encounter. Like the other one, Watkins had a hidden trailer to _prepare_ his victims. 

That’s where Malcolm was right now. 

“I have many hunting grounds,” John had said. “You continue to underestimate me, Malcolm. The Bronx was just my favorite.” 

And it shouldn’t have been a surprise, Malcolm thought. They only found nineteen victims in that Junkyard in the Bronx. Watkins had been active for almost twenty years. Watkins had crushed a poor woman and had taken Ryan Davis in the span of one month. The math simply didn’t add up. 

Yet, for some reason, Malcolm was still surprised. And just how confident was Watkins, that he dragged him back to one of his old hunting grounds? Wasn’t he worried about Gil and the others finding him?

The fact that he _brought them back to a familiar place_ was Watkins’ first mistake. It left Malcolm feeling hopeful despite his current predicament. 

Unlike Ryan Davis, Malcolm wasn’t chained with his hands above him, gagged and locked in a tiny dark space with a mirror. Watkins had spared his aching shoulder the pain and his busted ankle from bearing his weight and Malcolm couldn’t help but feel thankful.

Instead, Watkins tied him to a chair. Each wrist was handcuffed to an arm of the chair, which allowed for some mobility. He could move them far enough to change positions but not to do anything to escape. His right ankle was tied to the chair’s leg with rope, but his left wasn’t. Again small mercies. 

Malcolm wondered why Watkins bothered, but part of him already knew. He wanted him in shape. A broken, half-starved partner would be no good to him.

John’s attitude had changed because he believed that Malcolm’s time in the box had broken him. The fact that he had used it to threaten him again was enough evidence. _Getting out was a mercy. Food and water were mercies. Sitting in a chair was another mercy._ _Misbehave and you go back in the box_. 

Malcolm had no intention of going back in that box, but he wasn’t planning to follow in Watkins’ footsteps either. He needed to find an escape fast--one he could manage with a busted ankle. 

The sound of the emergency exit in the ceiling opening alerted him to Watkins’ arrival. The man landed heavily on his feet. “You were screaming for help?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. 

Malcolm felt himself flush with embarrassment. He’d thought he was lucky that Watkins wasn’t there to observe him thrash and scream- apparently, the screaming was loud enough to be heard from underground.

“Oh, you weren’t?” Watkins’ interest peaked. “It’s those... Um... _nightmares? The ‘Girl in the Box’_ right? _”_

Malcolm started, his right hand trembled before he closed it tightly. Just how much did Watkins know about him? He schooled his features and tried to sound calm, but when he spoke, it was more of a bitter snarl than a sarcastic remark. “Not _nightmares._ They’re called Pavor Nocturnus! Didn’t Simon give you the full details?” 

“So you know about the good doctor,” Watkins said. “You really are a smart one, just like your father. Imagine the things we could accomplish together.” 

Malcolm scoffed and spat back, “I told you it’s _never_ going to happen.”

Watkins ignored him. “But no. He didn’t tell me. I could see he hated you, but his tiny, little conscience was holding him... HEH!” He scratched at his chin- where his beard used to be- absentmindedly. “The screaming could be troublesome. So, what can we do about those _nightmares?_ ” 

“Nothing,” Malcolm rolled his eyes in frustration. “I can’t just _stop_ them.”

“We were lucky just now. It was early and no one normally passes by this place to have heard you. But … mmm.. Of course, I can always gag you,” Watkins debated, ignoring him. “No. That won’t do. We need to stop them for good.” 

Malcolm tensed. He could see Watkins’ eyes as they shone. Some plan was forming and his expression meant one thing: it didn’t bode well for him.

“I’ll be back, Malcolm!” Watkins hauled himself out of the trailer and was gone before Malcolm could process what had happened. 

It took less than four minutes before John hopped back in. Malcolm’s heart stuttered in his chest when he saw the object in his hand. A car battery, probes, and cables. 

Watkins laid the battery on the floor and pulled some rope from a nearby cabinet. He pointed at the cuffs. “The metal is a conductor,” he explained and waved the ropes at Malcolm. “We will need these.” 

“What are you doing?” Malcolm hissed as Watkins wrapped the length of the rope around his wrists. 

“You already know, little Malcolm. Helping you get rid of those dreams. You should be _thankful_.” Once satisfied that Malcolm was immobilized, he removed the handcuffs and busied himself with the connections. 

“By-- by using a _car battery_?” Malcolm gulped, remembering the feeling of electricity coursing through his body. How at the time he had wished he didn’t agree to it, hoped it would end soon but the pain kept going, endlessly just like the memories of what happened when Watkins last had him. 

That ECT treatment he received at the time was illegal... but, _still_ it wasn’t an electric current from a car battery. 

The idea that Watkins wanted to electrocute him filled him with panic and dread. Clenching his teeth, Malcolm tugged at the ropes again, testing their hold. Every move was agony. He could see the rope darken with his blood where the rough material chafed at his already abused skin. 

Watkins set up the equipment and connected the wires, ignoring Malcolm completely. For someone who spent so much time around cars in a junkyard, it wasn’t unusual. Once he was done, he stood up and rubbed his hands in anticipation. 

“Well, this is the best thing I could think of. It’ll work like those fancy machines they have in hospitals. You tried them once, didn’t you? That therapist was appalled.”

Malcolm knew Watkins was lying. He knew that he didn’t believe this made-up story about banishing Malcolm’s nightmares. Watkins just wanted to hurt him, to break him. 

Watkins adjusted the dial he had connected and touched the ends of the two probes. Sparks flew from them and the horrible sound of buzzing current turned Malcolm’s blood cold. 

Malcolm’s eyes were blown wide open. This would kill him. 

“Mhmm… Too strong. Let me adjust the current.” Watkins played with the dials and tested the probes again. This time there were no sparks, no horrible sounds -- just the constant buzzing and humming of energy as electrons moved between the ends. He smiled, content with the effect. 

“John, wait. Agh!” Malcolm’s pleas were blocked by a strap of leather Watkins placed between his teeth. 

“Here bite on this.” 

Watkins unsheathed his pocket knife and brought it near Malcolm’s chin. He instinctively pressed himself against the chair and away from the sharp object.

John held his T-shirt from the collar and slid the knife through the fabric, the sound so loud in the tense silence. Malcolm’s bare chest was rising and falling rapidly in anticipation of what was to come. 

Watkins placed the knife next to the battery and looked at Malcolm, eyes glowing with a sadistic gleam. 

He picked up the probe. 

Malcolm pressed himself against the chair, sucking in his stomach to get away from the inevitable. His heart was racing so fast that he could hear it beating in his ears. _It was happening_. He tried to brace himself. 

“Don’t be so scared, little Malcolm,” Watkins cooed. “It won’t hurt… mmm _well it will_ , but it's a good pain. You need to atone for your sins.”

The moment the probe touched Malcolm’s skin, his body jerked. It was nothing like the ECT he received. It was a hundred times worse. White-hot pain washed through him like fire that spread through all his cells. The pain was everywhere. Malcolm screamed and screamed despite the gag, biting on the leather but nothing could numb the spreading pain.

It was a momentary touch, barely lasting ten seconds, but for Malcolm, it was far too long. Watkins pulled the probe away, and Malcolm’s body went lax in the chair. He was already dizzy and exhausted, panting loudly. His body had already broken in sweat and the skin where the probe touched was burning. 

Watkins removed the gag and cupped his face, forcing Malcolm to look into his eyes. “So, Malcolm? How does it feel?”

Malcolm keened. The sound was bathed with anger and hatred and pain. “Go to hell!” he spat. 

Watkins smirked and held the gag for him again suggestively.

Malcolm started shaking his head, “No, Watkins, enough! Stop!”

“As you like,” John tsked, dropping the gag on the floor, and pushed the probe again.

Malcolm’s scream was resounding this time, heightened with agony, blood-curdling since there was no gag stopping it. He arched his back upward and his limbs seized. Somehow the pain was exponentially worse than the previous time. He could feel his pain receptors firing everywhere, body twitching and Malcolm wanted to die. It kept going.

He was fading in and out of consciousness, feeling his entire system shut down when the probe was removed. When the pain went away, Malcolm slumped back, head lolling on his chest- and he drifted off.

A backhanded slap brought him back. Malcolm opened his eyes and a pitiful whimper escaped his lips. His cheek was throbbing but it was nothing in comparison to how his body was feeling. 

“Malcolm, you with me?” Watkins asked.

“What?” He panted, confused. 

He must have passed out. Malcolm’s muscles twitched and spasmed, he gasped and wheezed for air but his lungs hurt, his throat hurt and the air felt like sand. He could taste blood in his mouth- he must have bitten his tongue. 

Watkins was talking or maybe he had stopped- Malcolm’s ears were ringing so loudly that he couldn’t tell. His vision blurred in and out, and Malcolm remained in the pain induced limbo for a while until something splashed in his face. 

_Water_. 

He gasped even louder. His eyes widened with the horror of the situation. If Watkins electrocuted him while he was dripping wet, it could be the end of him. The realization was enough to bring him back to his senses once more.

“Watkins, please...” he rasped out, and his voice was small and pathetic. 

“Do you still see the girl in the box?” Watkins’ voice demanded.

“No.. no.. no I don’t,” he repeated brokenly. 

“Somehow, I don’t believe you,” the voice above him spoke and the gag was forced between his teeth again. Malcolm began hyperventilating, writhing and thrashing weakly against the rope that bound him. 

The probes touched his skin and this time it felt like he was being burned from the inside. His back arched so high and his eyes felt like they were going to pop and his head was burning and everywhere was burning and he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. The gag slipped as Malcolm opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out. It was too much, and all his senses were screaming for reprieve. 

Malcolm would give anything for it to stop- _anything_. 

And then the probes were gone but the pain didn’t go. His frame was hacked by a fit of coughs and tears streamed down his face as he struggled to breathe. His whole body was shaking uncontrollably, and he could still feel the fire in his neurons, burning, aching, pulsating. It was excruciating and _he couldn’t take another one. He couldn’t..._

When Watkins held the probes again, Malcolm dissolved into hoarse sobs. “Watkins, _please_ …Please... You were-- r..right,” His voice broke. “A..about me...I’ll... I’ll join you, and do whatever you want. Just _please_ _stop._ ”

Watkins’ hands dropped, eyes narrowed as he looked at him. Malcolm fought a wave of nausea as he forced himself to keep his head up and maintain eye contact. 

Watkins smirked, “I wasn’t born yesterday, Malcolm. Do you think I’d believe you just like that.”

“It’s the truth…” Malcolm almost wailed. Right now he’d give Watkins anything he wanted to hear. Anything to get him to stop. 

A few tense moments passed where the sound of Malcolm’s labored breathing was the only sound in the trailer. 

Malcolm closed his eyes as the tears kept falling, preparing himself for the worst, saying mental goodbyes to his family, to Gil and Dani and JT. 

“Very well,” Watkins finally announced and Malcolm dared to peek at his captor. Watkins was disconnecting the setup. He sagged in the chair, not realizing how tense he was. 

Watkins stood when he finished and touched Malcolm’s chin edging his face towards him. “Don’t think this is over, Malcolm. You need to vow your obedience to me before I can trust you.” He let Malcolm’s head drop. “You stay here for now, and we will speak. But..” he raised a warning finger. “ _If_ you’re lying, I’ll make you wish you were dead.” 

Watkins took his battery set up and left, once again, leaving Malcolm alone in the trailer. 

Malcolm let out a shaky breath that morphed into a broken sob. Once he started, it was impossible to stop. 

* * *

JT had barely slept the past three days, and now his head was hammering with a splitting headache. He’d grabbed a double shot espresso in hopes that the caffeine would drown the pain. So far, it wasn’t working. 

Dani didn’t look any more relaxed. JT guessed she hadn’t slept either. She was sitting next to him, reviewing the information they already had, occasionally sipping on a cup of Earl Grey. 

It was around eight in the morning when Gil joined them in the conference room. They were both surprised to see him. 

“What are you doing here, Gil?” Dani asked gently. “You should take some time off.” 

Gil looked like hell, his eyes were haunted, unfocused, full of pain--but also of undying determination. 

“You took... _him_ with us,” Gil swallowed. “I need to know if it’s him. I need to be sure--” he cut himself off before his voice became too watery. When he spoke again, his expression was harder. “And we need to find Watkins. He needs to pay for this.”

JT squeezed his elbow in silent support, and they waited together for news from Edrisa. 

It was ten minutes later when the Medical Examiner bounced into the room, breathless, and practically screamed, “It’s not Bright!” 

“What?!” the three detectives uttered at the same time. 

Edrisa’s eyes were puffy and bloodshot, but she was smiling, giddy, and more like herself than when JT had last seen her. 

“Are you sure?” Gil asked, almost as though he were scared to hope.

“Certain!” Edrisa assured him. 

“You got the dental records already?” JT inquired. 

“Not exactly!” Edrisa’s eyes darted between them. “My goal wasn’t to identify the victim, but to find out if it was Bright.” 

She handed Gil the file. “This guy had multiple tattoos. Contrary to common belief, when a body burns the outer epidermis is what burns but the tattoo remains in the lower dermis. Our victim had a big dragon tattoo on his side, the other was on his finger. I checked Bright’s medical records from the night he was stabbed… they keep pictures. He didn’t have any tattoos on his side, and as you all know, he doesn’t have any visible ones on his hands!”

When no one interrupted her, she continued, “Plus, the dental records will confirm it. This guy had all of his four wisdom teeth, while Bright had two of them removed. So, yes, he _definitely is not Bright!”_

They collectively released the breath they’d been holding. 

“I don’t understand. Didn’t Watkins know we’d check the dental records? What was he trying to achieve by using a decoy?” Dani mused as she perched on the table and crossed her legs. She was no longer standing stiffly in the corner. She was back in control. “And who’s our vic?”

“Maybe he didn’t know,” JT replied, all signs of his fatigue and headache forgotten. ”Hell, I didn’t know about the tattoos, so it’s possible he thought we would assume it was Bright. Maybe he just wanted to waste our time, or derail us. It could be anything with this man.”

“Gil..?” Dani’s head whipped to the side as Gil stormed out. “ _Gil!_ ”

“Leave him,” JT told her. “He needs time.” 

“Yeah,” Dani agreed eventually. “Yeah, let’s find Bright!”

  
  



	9. Be That Guy

Be That Guy

Gil didn’t know where his legs were taking him when he stormed out of the office. He ran out of the precinct and inhaled sharply like the air he breathed there was toxic. 

Getting into his car, he rested his head on the steering wheel and tried to regulate his breathing. His heart was pounding against his chest, and Edrisa’s words kept ringing in his mind endlessly. 

_It wasn’t Bright! It wasn’t Bright! It wasn’t Bright!_

So why wasn’t Gil relieved? Why wasn’t he in the conference room with his detectives looking for Malcolm? Why did it _still_ feel like he’d lost his kid?

 _Because it could still happen,_ a tiny voice in his mind taunted back. _Malcolm wasn't the one they found, but it didn't mean he was safe. Watkins could have killed him somewhere else already._

But then why go through the trouble of setting the cabin on fire? No, Watkins wanted him alive, and Gil had to find him before it was too late. Gil had to get his shit together. He had to stop acting like a grieving father and start acting like a police lieutenant. That or he should hand over this case to someone else. It was so easy in principle, yet so hard in practice. 

It had been five days since Watkins had broken into Malcolm’s loft and taken him. Gil was aching to see his kid again, hear his voice. Reluctantly, he reached for his phone and called Malcolm’s cell. 

"This is Bright, leave a message," Malcolm's voice came through the speaker, and Gil fought the fresh waves of tears that threatened to break free.

But as pathetic as the idea was at first, hearing Malcolm’s voice grounded Gil somehow, filled him with a sense of renewed purpose. He needed to hear that voice again, excitedly begging him to solve a case, telling him about a motive or simply saying Gil’s name. 

He unclenched his hand and looked at the crumpled picture of their victim. Absentmindedly, Gil had taken it while Edrisa was debriefing them and held onto it. He was somehow grateful that he did. He fired the engine and drove to Claremont Psychiatric Facility. 

Once there, Gil made for Simon Coppenrath's office. He didn’t bother asking if he was available, or if he was with a patient. The poor nurse followed him, frantically trying to stop him, demanding that he wait outside.

She left him alone when he flashed his badge. 

Simon was at his desk, fortunately alone, reviewing some work. He raised his eyes to check who the intruder was, and when he saw Gil, he sighed.

* * *

“Shit!” Malcolm cursed and slumped back in the chair, breathing heavily. His teeth were sore, and his lips and gums were swollen, rubbed raw, and bleeding. Blood trickled and drooled down his chin. 

He'd folded himself over an arm of the chair, working the ropes around his wrists with his teeth for what seemed like hours. The progress, if one could even call it that, was more than disappointing.

He had wasted precious time, in the beginning when Watkins had first left him, swimming in and out of consciousness, then sulking in self-pity about his helplessness. The electrocuting session had left him dizzy and thirsty, feeling extremely cold despite being covered in sweat. Remembering what Watkins said about his screams being heard, Malcolm tried to scream for help, but his voice was hoarse and broken. _No one would hear him like that._

His other plan was to try to get out of the chair. Malcolm steeled himself against the pain that spiked every time he applied pressure on his broken ankle and tried to angle the chair nearer to the cabinet. He’d seen John take the rope from one, maybe he’d luck out and find a weapon--something sharp! The movement was next to impossible though, and even if he had managed it, given how his hands were restrained, he wouldn't be able to reach for anything.

The ropes needed to come off first. So he started using his mouth. 

That had been three hours ago.

Unlike his other prisons, this one had a small clock hanging on the wall. Watkins had left around eight in the morning, and it was almost noon now.

Luck was on his side because the man wasn’t back yet. However, Malcolm couldn’t help but feel the threads of dread weave themselves around his chest in a suffocating hold. Watkins must be busy preparing something horrible, and Malcolm didn’t want to wait around and see what it was.

He knew that Watkins hadn’t believed his lie about following him, which meant that Watkins would use it as an excuse to hurt him some more. 

He took a few seconds to inhale. Everything hurt, and the thought of bending over again was making him nauseous. His time was running out, though, and he needed to get out of these ropes.

Bending over, Malcolm twisted in his chair and angled himself to work on the knots once more. 

* * *

“Lieutenant, I seem to recall asking you to contact my lawyer if you wished to speak with me again. I’m quite busy at the moment,” Simon dismissed with one hand. 

He went back to his work, writing on a small notebook when a picture of a burned corpse was slapped on his desk.

Simon flinched, cringing, stomach threatening to empty its contents. It was a gruesome display, a sight no one would wish to see--not in real life, not in a crumpled picture, _not at all._

He paled. “What is this?” 

“ _This!_ ” Gil Arroyo hissed. “ _This_ could have been Malcolm! It’s Watkins’ latest victim.”

“Good God!” Simon whispered and brought his hands to cover his eyes and fight another wave of nausea. “Aaah... how did you know that it was Watkins? … he- he’s never burned any of his victims before.” 

"We followed him to his hideout," the Lieutenant's voice shook. "It was a cabin two hours out of the city. When…" he swallowed thickly. "When we arrived, it was too late. The fire had eaten everything. Watkins was gone. And - and we thought this was _him._ ”

When Simon said nothing, the man continued. “If you know something that can help, now’s the time to tell me. Anything. Anything at all- before it’s too late.”

Simon looked at the man before him and sighed. “Listen, Lieutenant, I already told you…” 

The sound of Gil's hands slamming on the desk made Simon stop. He looked into the man's eyes, expecting to see them full of the anger that led to the outburst, but he only saw pain and anguish. Simon knew that look, the same look he saw every day in the mirror. It was the look of a broken man- a man who had failed his kid.

 _“Please_ …” Arroyo whispered. “You lost your daughter, right? What wouldn’t you do to get her back?” 

_Trauma doesn’t go away just because someone pretends to understand you_ , he’d told the profiler once.

Well, Simon understood the Lieutenant's pain without needing to pretend. He felt it: palpable, pulsating, suffocating.

Simon exhaled and closed his eyes. Part of him wanted to yield, to help. It was true, he wanted to get back at Malcolm Bright, but kidnapping, torture and murder were never part of the deal. In his worst days, Simon wanted to see the man out of a job, lost at the end of a bottle. Maybe he'd hoped the consultant would do one more reckless thing and end up in prison.

But not this. 

_But you knew_ , his inner voice chastised. _You knew about Watkins and his escape._ Maybe a part of him even knew something bad would happen, and he’d let it.

But he never imagined he’d be looking at a burned corpse and be the reason behind it. He isn’t a monster, never was, and never would be.

Watkins must be stopped. 

_Yet_ if Endicott knew... 

As if sensing his inner conflict, Gil tried again. “I know you want to help. You were always a good man, always on the right side. Be that man again. Be the man who raised Lily, the man she knew! Help me save him, and put Watkins behind bars for good.”

Simon exhaled loudly. 

He got up and opened his door to check that no one was eavesdropping. Content that they were alone, he went back to his chair and motioned for Gil to sit. 

His voice was low and bathed in regret as he talked. “Watkins didn’t like to talk much about his older _mission_ \- most of our talks were centered around Malcolm. But he did let one thing slip when he was bragging about the police underestimating him. He said he had many other hunting grounds that he used, places other than the junkyard in the Bronx.”

The lieutenant inhaled shakily, and it looked like it was the first real breath he took in days. "Did he mention names? Locations? The FBI has been trying to locate his other spots."

“No, no, I’m sorry,” Simon said apologetically. “But he did once mention that he went by another name!” Simon fetched his notes and started shuffling through them.

“Other than Paul Lazar?”

“Yes,” he flipped through the pages trying to locate the note. “Ahh! Rob Peters. Maybe that’ll help.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Arroyo stood and made his way to the door.

“Lieutenant…” Simon hesitated. 

“Mhmm?” Gil looked back and perked his head.

“I hope you find him.”

“I hope so too, I don’t know what I will do if we don’t. Umm.. we’ll need to speak again, take an official statement.”

“I understand.” Simon nodded.

And like that, Gil Arroyo left Simon alone. Simon eased back in his chair, thinking of what he’d just done. Nicholas Endicott would make him pay dearly for this. 

But if he could make his daughter proud of him one last time, it was worth it. 

* * *

Malcolm had almost managed to chew through one side of the rope when the sound of the emergency door opening made him freeze. He straightened just as Watkins hopped inside. 

“Hey there, Malcolm,” he announced. “Did you miss me?”

Then his eyes settled on Malcolm and pieced together what Malcolm had been doing. Watkins frowned. "Oh, you were keeping busy, weren't you?"

He lifted Malcolm’s chin, observing the trails of blood that seeped out of his mouth. He brushed at the dry blood with his thumb before letting Malcolm’s head drop again. 

Malcolm’shead whipped to the side violently as Watkins backhanded him. The ghost of Watkins’ rough knuckles made Malcolm’s cheek throb. Warm blood pooled in his mouth, and he spat it at Watkins' feet.

“I’ll forget this attempt, if you follow through with your next test.” Watkins warned, “If you fail, you won’t like what I’ll do.”

“What test?” Malcolm asked, then twisted his wrists impatiently. “And will you let me out of these.” 

“Will you run?” Watkins smiled. 

"I wouldn't get far if I did," Malcolm muttered. "Besides, you'd catch me anyway."

“Yeah, I suppose I would,” he chuckled and disappeared behind Malcolm for a second. “But! I like to be careful.” 

Watkins came back with a hoodie and a pair of handcuffs. He cut through the ropes binding Malcolm’s wrists. 

Malcolm hissed and shook his arms. It felt good to be able to move them again. He took the hoodie and put it on, trying his best to ignore the fact that it smelled like the other man. Malcolm welcomed the warmth it offered, hugging himself tightly until Watkins yanked his hands forward and cuffed them together. When he secured them, he moved to cut the ropes around Malcolm’s ankle.

Once again, Malcolm was free to stand and move, yet essentially trapped. He could have attacked Watkins, but how could he have run with a busted foot? Or haul himself out of the trailer buried underground. 

He was given a few sips of water, before Watkins half dragged him into a small closet. It was identical to the one he found Ryan Davis in. A metal hook was hanging from the ceiling. A mirror was mounted to his right, and a small lamp barely kept the area illuminated.

“Stay here. I’ll come get you when it’s time for your test.” Watkins pushed him in and locked the door. Malcolm heard the key turn in its lock before he was once more left alone. 

* * *

“Boss! Are you good?” JT’s voice came through the phone’s speakers after the first ring. Gil appreciated the speed. 

"Ye...um, listen, I have a lead." Gil cleared his throat. "Simon said that Watkins mentioned another junkyard that he used for his killings. He also gave me an alias that Watkins used."

“He did?” 

“The name is Rob Peters,” Gil said. “Cross-reference it with any junkyard owners, maybe it’ll lead somewhere.”

“On it!” JT hesitated. “How did you get him to talk, Gil?”

Gil swallowed. “I did what Bright would have done...”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have news!!!!
> 
> By posting this chapter, I am officially celebrating writing 100,000 total words of Pson fanfics! Prodigal son was the first fandom I ever write fanfics for and it is such a unique and great show. <3 <3 the characters are so interesting that I felt like exploring them more. I mean Simon is a pretty cool character! I wish they didn't make him the baddie of the episode! Anyway, I digress :P 
> 
> This is a huge milestone for me, and I want to thank all my amazing friends on discord who always encouraged me to be a better writer. I love you guys <3
> 
> But more importantly, thank you (the readers) for reading and supporting me. Without your kudos and your great comments, things wouldn't have been the same!! You're the best!!! Thank you <3
> 
> Sab out xx


	10. The Girl In The Box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for the BTHB box: Dragging themselves along the ground.
> 
> Jameena! it wouldn't be the same without you <3 <3 <3 thank you!!

The Girl In The Box

“Stay here. I’ll come get you when it’s time for your test.” Watkins pushed him in and locked the door. Malcolm heard the key turn in its lock before he was once more left alone. 

Malcolm had deduced pretty quickly why the man had locked him up again. 

It seemed that even serial killers got tired from time to time, and Watkins snored. Big time. All he could hear was the steady rhythm of John's distracting symphony. Having tried to get this door to open and failing, Malcolm decided to sleep too. He might be broken down physically, but he could at least try to manipulate his way out of this if he was mentally functional.

It must have been a couple of hours before Watkins opened the door and dragged him out.

Malcolm didn't feel as rested as he’d hoped. The nausea was worse, and his head was killing him. He was stiff, his muscles were aching, his bruises screaming and the burns from the probes on his abdomen were on fire. 

Weak on his feet, Malcolm reluctantly allowed Watkins to support him until they were out of the trailer and in the vast emptiness of a junkyard. It was already dark and quiet, perfect for staying hidden from any prying eyes. The air was chilly, and Malcolm was grateful for the hoodie he was now wearing.

The fresh breeze was all he needed, though. He could feel his mind working more clearly. Looking at the night sky and the stars were therapeutic, even in the face of panic and danger.

His eyes fell on the vehicle they’d used to reach this place. The truck that held the chest Watkins had trapped him inside. Malcolm staggered. Watkins’ hand rested on his lower back and pushed him. Malcolm limped in silence next to him until they reached it. 

When they stopped, Watkins looked at him with bright and excited eyes. He rubbed both hands excitedly. “I picked something good for you, and you’ll see that the similarities are uncanny.” 

"What do you mean?" Malcolm asked.

"Heh!" Watkins opened the door and dragged down the chest. It was heavy, and Malcolm's heart sank in his stomach.

“What’s in the box, John?” he whispered. 

The man only smiled in return and gestured for Malcolm to open it. 

Malcolm's hand started trembling. In fact, he was trembling all over, and he knew the cold breeze had nothing to do with it.

 _Was Eve in there?_ His mind taunted. _Was it Ainsley? Mother?_

No, no, it made no sense. That wasn't John's MO. He only killed addicts. That's his mission. But Watkins had said this one was special. Plus, he wanted to kill Malcolm's family last time he kidnapped him.

“Anytime now, Malcolm,” Watkins’ tone was impatient and threatening. “Open the box!”

Malcolm swallowed the fear, bent down, and unfastened the latch. He inhaled sharply, and his good leg buckled when he saw what was inside.

There was _a girl_ in the box. 

_Of course, there was a girl._ What else would it have been? 

Watkins left him for hours tied to a chair while he went hunting for a victim. He returned and went to sleep while the poor woman was drugged in that chest, hopeless, a prisoner.

Malcolm's breathing grew more and more frantic, and he was soon hyperventilating- no ... _wheezing_ for air.

It was like having a night terror while awake, but this was no dream. And he could never wake up. The situation he was in was real. The girl was real. John was real, and he was utterly helpless to save her. 

Again. Just like the poor girl he couldn't save. Eve's sister. Sophie Sanders, who was locked in the darkness and the stifling silence that he now knew firsthand. Alone and scared. Malcolm couldn't breathe; the air was acid. He couldn't see, the world was on fire. He couldn't hear, it was all static. It was an attack on all his senses at once.

There was another woman trapped in this box and ... and _what_? What did John want him to do? 

“Come now, you know exactly what he wants you to do,” his father’s unwelcomed voice echoed from somewhere out of sight. “He wants you to kill this girl, of course.”

No, no, no, no, no. He'd rather die himself. He'd go through another car battery treatment, but he would never hurt her.

No. _Never._

He needed to get her out. Help her escape. She should escape. But how? _How?_ **How?**

Breathe. 

Calm down.

Breathe. 

You need your brain to think. 

Malcolm kept repeating his mantra, until his breathing slowed down. He blinked away the tears, and his vision started to sharpen again.

Malcolm looked up at Watkins, knowing exactly what he would see. Sure enough, the man was looking at Malcolm with a coy smile on his face. He _knew_ Malcolm would react this way, just like he knew everything else about him. It was still unsettling even though he’d come to expect it. 

Malcolm’s attention went back to the girl in the box. She wasn’t moving, either asleep or likely _drugged._ She had barely even moved when Malcolm opened the box. 

In his anger over what had happened to her, Malcolm found his voice again. “Who is this?” 

Watkins shrugged, and his expression was so smug that Malcolm wanted to wipe it off his face more than ever. "Does it matter? Some trash I found on the street."

 _Ok. Ok. This was Ok._ He just needed to play Watkins' game. If Malcolm was right, they were going to keep her for a 'sin reflection period.' Malcolm could try and help her escape then. 

_“_ Like you helped yourself? Look at you,” his father mocked. 

He had to keep his eyes peeled for an opportunity and do his best.

Watkins lifted her out of the box like she was light as a feather. She was so small and fragile in his arms. Malcolm ached to get her as far away from the man as possible,but his hands were literally tied.

“Come, Malcolm,” Watkins grunted and started walking. Having no option but to follow, Malcolm got up and limped behind him. 

But instead of going left where the hidden trailer was, Watkins veered to the right.

No. "Watkins, what are you doing?" Malcolm called nervously.

“Just what I told you, Little Malcolm. We are getting rid of the trash! The scum that pollute the streets. They don't deserve to live.” He opened one of the abandoned cars’ doors and put the girl inside, strapping her in. Malcolm heard her moan. She was coming around. 

“No. No, just wait! _Wait!_ Watkins, listen to me. Don’t — don’t you have to prepare her first. We have time. Let’s get her back to the trailer.” 

Watkins eyed him like a frustrated teacher. He sighed audibly. “No! Our _mission_ is more important than the ritual. Your inauguration is more important. She’ll be your first Malcolm. The first one is always special. That’s why I kept her in the box.” He looked meaningfully at him. “For you. This will liberate you.”

Watkins hastily walked towards the control booth. Having done this many times before, he quickly programmed the mechanical arm to lift the car and place it into the compactor.

Horrified, Malcolm’s eyes followed the car as it fell into the chamber, fitting like a puzzle piece. The girl became more aware, and Malcolm could hear her frantic screaming and banging against the glass. 

"Come here!" Watkins beckoned him. "I have everything ready for you. All you have to do is press this button, and the process will start."

 _‘I won’t do it!’_ was almost out of his mouth before Malcolm realized that Watkins was expecting it. He knew Malcolm wouldn't go through it. This was just another form of torture. If Malcolm said those words, Watkins would simply press the button himself, and Malcolm would be forced to watch as the innocent girl was crushed to death. 

He had to be more tactical. 

Malcolm spotted a screwdriver on the ground by one of the cars. He fake tripped, which wasn’t very hard considering his current state, next to the car and took advantage of the darkness to scoop it. Grunting to get his feet under him once more, Malcolm stuffed the screwdriver in his hoodie’s pocket, and continued on.

Malcolm’s heart thundered in his chest with each step. Determination kept him moving. His fear, he buried in the deepest part of his mind, locked in the box along with the damage that wrecked his body. 

One thought kept him moving: he was going to save the girl in that car no matter the cost. She was screaming for help, crying. The sound of her despair was enough to break him, but still he focused on his task.

Nothing was more important than the case, more important than the victims. He only had one shot at this, one move that would either save her or doom them both, so he took a calming breath and dragged one foot after the other. 

The human brain takes around 600 milliseconds to process a thought. The three minutes it took Malcolm to get to Watkins would have to be enough for him to come up with a plan. 

The controller box where Watkins stood was small. There was room enough for both men to stand, but it would be a tight fit. Sudden movements would be very limited.

His hands were handcuffed, limiting his mobility further, and putting him at a great disadvantage when it came to hand to hand combat. More importantly, Malcolm would have no way of holding up against Watkins, because Watkins knew all his weak spots, _inflicted_ all his injuries. If Malcolm were to get in a fight, Watkins could easily knock him down with a brutal punch to his burns or a kick to his broken ankle. 

Assuming he was able to recover, it still wouldn’t be enough if Watkins could push the button.

There was no way out. 

“We don’t have all night, Malcolm,” Watkins called, baring his teeth like a hungry wolf. 

Malcolm’s only chance would be the screwdriver. It was the only surprise variable that Watkins wouldn’t expect, the only unknown in the equation. It would give him one single chance to save the girl. 

The question was how and where to use it to cause maximum damage without killing him.

 _“_ You could always aim for the eyes,” his father reminded, helpfully. 

No, that would definitely kill him. 

“You do have to know how deep is too deep,” Martin agreed. “Perhaps you can go for the arms? A leg? The neck? His heart? You’ll have to eliminate him eventually, you know.”

I am not going to kill anyone, Malcolm almost hissed aloud. 

_“_ Then you’ll die, my boy, a gruesome and ugly death. You’re walking right into his trap.” 

Malcolm hated to admit it, but his father’s voice was right. 

Either Malcolm got rid of Watkins or the compactor machine. While the latter would delay the execution, it would enrage Watkins. The former would guarantee the girl’s safety, but he wasn’t a killer. 

Watkins shifted a bit when Malcolm reached the panel, leaving a spot in front of the controller. John stood just behind him. 

“So all you gotta do to prove yourself to me, is press on that button right here,” he instructed. 

Malcolm looked at the board. It was full of switches and buttons, but there was no key he could yank and throw, no easy way to stop this machine operating. 

“Tick tock, Malcolm,” Watkins growled into his ear. He was too close, his breath hot on Malcolm’s neck. “Or, I promise, you won’t like how this ends.” 

Malcolm tightened his hold on the screwdriver.

“Kill him, Malcolm. It’s the only way,” Martin said. 

No.

_“You’re my son.”_

I can’t.

“We’re the same!” Martin’s voice insisted. 

At the same time, Watkins shouted, “Press IT now!” 

“Gaaaaah!” Malcolm let out a groan of despair and bent over. _Get the girl out,_ he reminded himself. _Save her._

It all happened in the blink of an eye. It was like that night at his house when Watkins went after his family. Suddenly, Malcolm was acting mechanically, muscle memory. 

He yanked his head back at full force, bashing the back of his skull against Watkins’ nose. While Watkins swore, taken aback by the attack, Malcolm twisted his body and plunged the screwdriver in Watkins’ side. He drove it deep and then yanked it out just as fast. Behind him, Watkins howled, a mixture of anger and pain. 

They were still stuck in the small controller box, bodies pressed against each other and Malcolm could feel the blood from Watkins’ wound seeping into his clothes, too. 

Knowing that his time was short, Malcolm slammed the bloody screwdriver into the switchboard in front of him. Sparks exploded from the impact. He hoped it was enough to render the machine useless. When he raised his arms to stab at the switch board again, strong boots kicked his injured ankle. Malcolm shrieked and toppled forward on the switchboard. Watkins’ easily yanked the weapon from his hands. 

Malcolm felt himself being twisted and thrown from the booth by the neck of the hoodie. Unable to properly brace himself, he ate dirt, cheek scraping against the rocky ground. He watched in horror as Watkins slammed the button once, expecting the compactor to start. It didn’t. Watkins tried twice, three times and nothing happened. He let out an animalistic cry and turned to look back at Malcolm. 

Watkins stumbled out after him. His nose and side were bleeding and his eyes were bathed with anger. Not only had Malcolm attacked him, but he’d also ruined his plans, sabotaged his machine. If Watkins didn’t want to kill him before, his body language certainly wasn’t showing that now. 

“Sonova!” Watkins swore. “You’ll regret this!” 

Wanting to create as much distance between him and his captor, Malcolm scrambled to his knees and tried to get his feet under him. He cried out as hot stabbing pain resounded in his foot and sent him tumbling to the ground again. He didn’t have time to spare his foot a glance, but he could feel it pulsating with renewed vigor and sending electricity up his leg. 

With his feet rendered useless, Malcolm dragged himself along the ground, crawling away from John. The ground was coarse and rough, bruising and scraping his exposed skin. Using his abused arms and shoulders to propel himself forward wasn’t easy work, but he dug his fingers and toes into the dirt and pulled himself along. His advance was slow and painful, and dare he say-- _futile._

He had made it halfway through the clearing, and had almost caught sight of the Junkyard’s entrance when Watkins overtook him. Malcolm’s chest slammed down as a foot landed heavily on his back, stopping him from advancing any further.

The pressure was off his back for a split second before pain erupted in his side where Watkins kicked him in the ribs. A hoarse cry ripped itself from his mouth, barely audible as the kick took his breath away. The second kick sent him on his back. There was no sound this time. Malcolm opened his mouth in a silent scream that morphed into a pained gasp. Malcolm brought his hands on his chest where new signals of pain were flaring.

Watkins was _angry- not in control._ It didn’t bode well for him at all. 

Before he could recover from the blows Watkins rolled him onto his stomach. His arms were pinned under him against the ground and the pressure was back on his spine, keeping him immobile. Malcolm tried to wiggle under Watkins’ hold but it was useless.

“Quit squirming!” Watkins pressed his knee harder into his spine, drawing an undignified whimper from him. 

The scuffle ended as soon as it began. Both men were panting loudly, and for a second that was all the sound they could hear in the depth of the night. The screams of the girl had subdued as well. Malcolm noted weakly that she might have passed out. 

Malcolm’s face was tilted to the side and Watkins grabbed his hair and ground it into the dirt. He winced as the pressure on his head increased. Then the hold on his hair gave way and the cold tip of Watkins’ pocket knife rested on Malcolm’s cheek, too close to his eyes. 

Malcolm’s heart stuttered in his chest. He closed his eyes.

“No, no, Malcolm. Keep them open. I want you to see what will happen.” 

* * *

It was almost midnight. Gil and the team were dressed up in their tactical gear, ready to breach. 

Taking noiseless steps, they made their way towards the Junkyard that Watkins and Malcolm had been traced to. The eerie silence was both calming and concerning. Gil hoped they weren’t too late already. He wasn’t sure how he would react if they breached and found an empty trailer mocking him. 

The thought itself was enough to send him down another spiral. He took a steadying breath. Gil couldn’t afford to be distracted. Any wrong move, any distraction could mean life or death for Malcolm. He needed to believe Malcolm was in there, and that he could save him. 

Guns drawn and ready, the team approached the Junkyard entrance from two sides. Gil and Dani from one side, JT and Officer Lance from the opposite one. 

A sound stopped them before JT could give the signal. It was faint and if it weren’t for their keen ears, it would have been lost to the night. 

A soft whimper. 

It _had to be_ Malcolm… 

Gil would have run into the clearing if it weren’t for Dani’s hand that rested on his shoulder. Impatiently, Gil looked at her, questioning what she wanted. Her eyes were urgent, but unlike him, they weren’t desperate and frantic. 

_It might not be him._ She mouthed. 

He cast a glance at JT who was giving him the same look. Gil knew if he acted irrationally, they could lose Malcolm. It was almost embarrassing to have his detectives _point it out_ for him. But Gil had made peace with the fact that he couldn’t act like this was just any random kidnapping case. It was almost impossible to keep a cool head. For Dani and JT, Malcolm was a colleague and a friend. For Gil, Malcolm was the son he could never have. It was different, and they all knew it. 

That was why, before they drove here, he had agreed to make JT the lead on this. It was why the signal was given by JT and not him. 

Dejectedly, Gil listened to them and held his position next to Dani. It only lasted a second, because the silence of the night was broken by a blood-curdling scream. 

A scream that could only be Bright’s. 

Ignoring the world, Gil rushed towards the sound. 


	11. I Hate Being Interrupted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HII I'm alive! 
> 
> This chapter went through so many rewrites because the first part just wasn't sitting well with me! But super special mega thanks to [Hannah_BTWM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannah_BWTM/pseuds/Hannah_BWTM) for helping me out with it!! Without her, I wouldn't have finished it. Go check her stuff if you haven't already!!
> 
> This was supposed to be the last chapter, but it was almost 6K so I decided to split it into two so that it's easier to read! The final part will be uploaded tomorrow!
> 
> This chapter is also for the BTHB box: Tied to a pole
> 
> Happy reading!

I Hate Being Interrupted

To say that John was furious would be an understatement. He was fuming with wild uncontrollable rage. But more than that, he felt humiliated. This would be the third time that this brat attacked him when John thought he had the upper hand. 

He ruined his plans, stabbed him,  _ again! _ Malcolm had to be taught a lesson. A lesson that he would never forget. 

Watkins looked ahead and saw Malcolm crawling away, unable to get up and run. He could easily catch up to him if he managed to stop the bleeding hole in his side. Fumbling with his undershirt, Watkins tore the fabric and pushed the strip of cloth in to stop the bleeding. It still hurt and would probably need stitches, but that had to wait. He had a lesson to teach. 

Subduing Malcolm was easy. Although John was injured, he had the advantage of being on his feet- something Malcolm lacked. In no time Malcolm was face first in the dirt, pinned under Watkins’ knees. John could feel the boy twist under him, trying to slip from his hold. 

“Quit squirming!” he growled, pushing his knees in the kid’s back to make a point. Malcolm tried to resist but as Watkins pushed, his resolve gave and he stilled, letting out a small whimper as he did so. 

Taking a minute to catch his breath, Watkins brushed the blood gushing from his nose with his jacket sleeve. Although it hurt like a bitch, he didn’t think it was broken, he'd had experience with that type of pain before. This was not it. His side wound was agonizing though, and in a renewed wave of anger, Watkins gripped Malcolm’s hair and ground it in the dirt, cherishing the pained sounds his captive made. They were satisfying, but not enough to satiate him. The boy was still twitching, maybe not voluntarily. His head was lolled to the side and Watkins could see Malcolm’s left eye darting around, no doubt planning something. 

Watkins unsheathed his pocket knife and rested its tip on Malcolm’s cheek. He froze, eyes snapping shut, and his breathing grew labored and erratic. The fighting spirit drained out of him instantly.

Now  _ that _ was satisfying. Feeling him go limp and cower under John’s hold.

Watkins smiled for the first time since Malcolm had attacked him. He felt back in charge. “No, no Malcolm. Keep them open. I want you to see what will happen,” he said. 

Reluctantly, Malcolm opened his eyes but he wouldn’t meet John’s gaze. It didn’t matter though, because he could smell the kid’s fear, and see his terror all the same. He traced the knife at his cheeks, nicking it, and drawing blood. Malcolm’s breathing hitched, but he said nothing. The knife was too close to his eyes and the boy knew how to play it safe, knew that any sudden movement could cost him dearly. Enjoying the sense of control, Watkins brought the blade up even closer to his left eye, and that’s when Malcolm stopped breathing altogether. He inhaled sharply and squeezed his eyes shut, unable to do what he was told anymore.

For a few seconds, they remained like that.

John pondered on how easy it would be to kill him right now, as the boy lay frozen under him. Through the maelstrom of feelings twisting through his gut, John admitted that he was fighting a lost cause. The boy was stubborn and would never change, and maybe he deserved to die for what he did- maybe John was holding on for something that might never happen. 

A smooth and swift motion was all that would be needed to slit Malcolm’s throat and leave him to die- just like that  _ cop _ who dared to harass his grandmother. Taking advantage of the silence with his knife still positioned near Malcolm’s eyes - an implicit threat, Watkins looked around him, thinking. He got an idea.

His desire to reform the kid was much stronger than his desire to kill him. John just needed to teach the boy a lesson, make sure Malcolm wouldn’t try anything like that again.

He dug his knees into Malcolm’s spine viciously, drawing pained whimpers. The boy wheezed and coughed as he struggled to breathe under the pressure. He lifted his weight off Malcolm for a moment and reached for his arms which were pinned under him. 

Malcolm was instantly squirming now that he had some room to move. "No. What are you-" 

"Give me your hands, boy," John growled. The two men struggled briefly before John was crowned the victor, gripping Malcolm’s tired forearms and dragging them above his head. The movement tore at his agonized side, but the anger to get back at Malcolm kept him going. John straddled the boy to keep him in check and held his hands in place. 

“You betrayed me, Malcolm,” John said. “That’s your punishment for what you  _ did. _ ” John didn’t think as he buried his knife into Malcolm’s offending palm. The blade sliced through skin and muscles. Malcolm let out a blood-curdling howl. It was frightening enough that the piece of trash in the car started screaming again. Watkins yanked the knife out just as swiftly and the boy twisted in pain and let out another broken cry as tears ran down his face.

Watkins looked at the blood dripping down the blade and watched as Malcolm cried in pain under him, then he felt his anger dissipate. "Well, I don't think you'll be having any use for screwdrivers again any time soon. I guess we'll have to take our lesson somewhere else now that you ruined my machine. ”

"I’ll... never be…. a killer. Get...off...me… " Malcolm spat between heaving gasps. Content with Malcolm’s state, Watkins climbed off him. He watched as Malcolm rolled himself onto his back, letting out whimpers and cries, and hugged his injured hand, ignoring the pool of blood that was seeping out of it. 

He crouched so he was on eye level with the boy and looked into his eyes. Behind that pained agonized expression, there was still a fire of defiance shining in those blue eyes. Despite himself, Watkins found himself laughing. 

"I have to admire your stubborn if futile attempts to save everyone, Malcolm. It seems as though I took you out of the box too early. Maybe you need some more reflection in there. Once I figure out what to do with the trash over there." 

Malcolm stiffened the second Watkins mentioned the box, and although he hissed out a strong “No!” Watkins watched his eyes as they grew wide with fear, and enjoyed the way he clutched his hand closer and tried to scurry away. 

Malcolm’s reaction made Watkins smile, happy that he made the right call. Watkins needed to restrain him and drug him before putting him in that box again. But he was also aware of his weakness right now- his side was still sluggishly bleeding and he wasn’t feeling very steady on his feet. He couldn’t leave Malcolm unattended, but his bleeding side made it hard to control him the way he needed. Malcolm must be made to stay put  _ in place  _ until he could patch himself up, and grab his supplies. Once he secured Malcolm inside the chest, he would end the junkie in the car. 

Watkins yanked his head up and brought it against the ground. Malcolm groaned and blinked sluggishly, dazed and unfocused. His head was bleeding now, a cut over his hairline seeping over his temple. John grabbed Malcolm's hair and half carried, half dragged him across the dirty ground. Malcolm scrambled, trying to get the pressure off his hair but Watkins moved quickly to prevent that. They reached one of the poles and Watkins dropped him. Malcolm lay coughing at his feet, twisting in pain as he hugged his injured hand. 

Watkins dragged and pushed Malcolm against the metal pole and then quickly wrapped a chain around his chest,securing him to the pole with a padlock. Watkins walked back and surveyed his handiwork. Malcolm was slumped against the pole, barely moving. Pleased with what he saw, he uttered a single word command and left him alone.

“Stay!”

It took Watkins around ten minutes to return. Using duct tape to stop the bleeding, he felt more capable of continuing his mission without fainting. He grunted as he stumbled out of the trailer and walked towards his waiting prey. 

Malcolm was as he left him, lying dazed, head resting on the pole, eyes closed, legs laid in front of him. Maybe he hit him too hard, Watkins thought dully. Well if it meant he was going to behave, maybe he should have done it days ago. 

He unlocked the padlock and crouched in front of him. “C’mon, Malcolm. It’s time! We’re leaving.” 

Malcolm moaned a single “No” with his eyes closed. 

“Wake up! No, no little Malcolm, Wake up!” John slapped him and Malcolm gasped. His eyes darted all around and then seemed to focus. 

“What... are you... doin,” Malcolm croaked. He was more alert, but his eyes were fluttering like he was going to pass out. 

John tried to haul him up, supporting his weight but Malcolm fought back, pushing him away. “Come now,” Watkins grabbed Malcolm’s bleeding hand harshly, enjoying the pained whimper that escaped his lips. 

“No!” he bit out defiantly as he struggled against John’s hold. 

“I’m getting tired of this, Malcolm. I could  _ crush _ you if I wanted.” Watkins pursed his lips in anger before he stomped on Malcolm’s broken foot. There was a sickening crunch, and then Malcolm’s scream echoed with an intensity fit to raise the dead as it cut through the night’s silence. Eventually, it broke and morphed into a pained sob as he writhed on the ground. 

Watkins held him by his collar and pulled him to his knees. 

The sound of hurried footsteps was all the warning he had before a voice growled. “Let him down. Hands where I can see them.”

Watkins was made. 

* * *

It was Malcolm’s voice. 

Gil was right. 

“Let him down. Hands where I can see them,” he aimed his gun at Watkins. Malcolm was on his knees next to him. Bright was convulsing, twisting in pain. The light was bright enough to show his hoodie darkened with blood, his face stained with tears. He was panting, gasping for air, and swaying next to Watkins. Whatever had happened just now was causing him immense pain. Gil would never forget the look on the kid’s face for as long as he lived.

Gil forced himself to stop looking at the kid and to focus on Watkins. If he looked surprised when Gil first arrived, he wasn’t anymore. 

The few seconds Gil was distracted looking at Malcolm were enough for the man to take out his pocket knife. Now the bloody weapon was resting under Malcolm’s chin. 

“I don’t think I will,” Watkins smiled, and to show his resolve, he pressed his knife deeper, edging Malcolm’s head to the back so that Gil couldn’t see his eyes anymore. Malcolm barely struggled, he was barely even conscious by the looks of him, only held upright by Watkins’ grip.

Gil waited for the footsteps of Dani and the rest to join him. But they didn’t come- no one was announcing their arrival. Gil was confused, yet he didn’t dare look behind him and check for his team. 

“If you don’t drop the knife, I’ll shoot,” Gil warned.

Watkins shrugged. “But if you do, I’ll probably slit his throat as I fall,” he stated. Watkins was right- he was too close to Malcolm, the knife angled to kill. “Do it,” Watkins challenged. “Or get out of the way. Malcolm is coming with me.”

“Bright needs a hospital,” Gil urged. “Surrender now and things will go easier for you.”

Watkins ignored him. “You’ve interrupted me, Lieutenant. I hate being interrupted!” he snarled. “Leave!” 

“You know you won’t get out of this alive if you take him,” Gil reasoned, trying to keep Watkins’ attention on him. He had to hope that his team was hatching a plan. He just needed to trust them.

“I see that Malcolm gets his tendency to barge into a situation without backup from you. You shouldn’t have come alone,  _ Gil, _ ” Watkins laughed. “But you can’t stop me. Malcolm and I are leaving. And  _ you…  _ you can either go save the trash in the car compactor or come after us. But let me tell you, she’s been there for quite some time. I doubt there is much breathable air left.” 

“You have another hostage? A girl?” Gil blinked his surprise. 

“Yes, Lieutenant. Malcolm’s gift. It’s a shame he didn’t appreciate it,” Watkins said thoughtfully. “But he’ll pay for it. Now, as I-” 

“NYPD! Put down your weapon and step away from Malcolm Bright,” Dani announced as she came up behind Gil, her weapon drawn and aimed at Watkins. From where she stood, she could have a clearer shot but Gil knew she wouldn’t risk it.  _ Not yet _ . 

“Oh, little Malcolm, would you look at this,” Watkins smiled and shook Malcolm. “Looks like your team isn’t as reckless as you. They all came to save you, together.”

Malcolm didn’t react, didn’t make a sound. Gil wasn’t sure he was awake anymore. Gil found himself hoping that Malcolm collapsed. If he had collapsed, they could take Watkins down. 

“So, where is the big guy?” Watkins asked amusedly. 

“Here, asshole,” JT came from behind Watkins, his gun aimed at his back. “You’re surrounded. Drop your weapon.” 

“And if I don’t?” Watkins made the mistake of trying to turn so he could see all three threats at the same time. 

It was the opening Dani was looking for. Steadily and effectively she fired her gun, hitting Watkins’ left leg. Before he even had the time to register the pain that shot through his leg, JT was wrestling the knife out of his hands. 

Bright fell into a heap on the ground. Gil was running to him before he even made the decision to do so. Malcolm wasn’t responsive. Terrified, Gil checked his pulse, and it was there. Faint but there. The kid was  _ alive _ .

Crying out and swearing, Watkins was thrown face-first on the ground and handcuffed by JT. Dani ran to the car compactor chamber to save the girl. Officer Lance had arrived too, calling for backup and an ambulance. 

“What the hell was that boss,” JT shouted at some point but Gil barely registered the words. He knew he made a mistake that could have cost Malcolm his life, but that didn’t matter right now. 

Bright was safe. Gil held him, hugging his fragile body, cupping his face, making sure he was real. 

That’s all that mattered. The rest was a blur.

* * *

Malcolm was floating in oblivion, mind drifting in and out, awareness filtering in the midst of bouts of endless darkness. He felt himself being moved, urgent voices talking around him, beeping sounds, and clanking. While his mind could register the movement, his eyes wouldn’t open to see what was happening. 

Then he heard a voice that calmed him, eased his panic.  _ Gil’s. “ _ It’s okay, kid. You’re safe now. Just relax, I’m here now.” 

Knowing he was safe now when the next sudden wave of oblivion engulfed him, he didn’t fight it. Then it was a loop of nothingness, of silence, of  _ peace.  _ He was like a lost ship in the ocean, abandoned, pushed aimlessly by the waves. 

.

.

.

Slowly his mind was drifting ashore, his senses coming back. 

Was he dead? No, nonsense. He’s so much alive. Dead people don’t breathe. 

Voices started filtering in through the haze in his mind. They were less urgent, their tone more relaxed, yet not  _ very  _ relaxed- tense is a better word. Malcolm moaned trying to snap out of the haze shrouding his mind and keeping him floating. He tried to open his eyes but his eyelids were so heavy. 

“He’s coming through,” one voice said.

“Already? How! The sedatives should have kept him out for a few more hours,” another person replied. 

“Have him restrained.” a third voice announced. Commanding, authoritative. It made Malcolm’s blood run cold. 

“But sir, he’s heavily sedated. I doubt he can even move,” the other voice argued. 

“Just do it!” the man commanded, his voice cold, familiar, and devoid of emotion. 

“Yes sir.”

And then hands were on him. 

_ No!  _

He wanted to argue, wanted to push them away but his body wasn’t his to command just yet. He felt coldness wash into his veins, pushing him back under. 

The next time Malcolm came through, his head was throbbing with a vengeance. He groaned and forced his eyes open. A faint source of light illuminated the room he was in. The room was silent but for the faint sound of something beeping. The sound felt familiar like he knew what it belonged to, but his hazy mind couldn’t place where he knew it from. 

“Hello, Malcolm,” the same cold voice from earlier greeted him. 

Malcolm’s brows creased. He tried to place the voice but his mind was sluggish just like every part of his body right now. _ Where was he? Where was Gil?  _

His vision was blurry and he blinked again, trying to get his eyes to focus but it was useless. Malcolm lay in this limbo for some time (whether it was minutes or seconds, he couldn’t tell) before a shadowy figure approached him, presumably the owner of the voice. His heart started beating faster and somewhere, the strange rhythmic beeping was growing louder and faster. 

He tried to lift his head, but it was a mighty feat. Eyes half-lidded, his head lolled on the pillow he realized he was now resting on. The figure loomed over him and Malcolm was filled with a sense of foreboding. But it wasn't Watkins. A tiny part of his mind was arguing that it had to be him. Who else would it be? 

But if it wasn’t Watkins, then he had to be safe. Gil found him, right? Was it a hallucination? The thoughts jumbled in his mind but it felt like it was filled with cotton. 

Cold hands made him stir and he let out a soft gasp. The hands brushed at his cheek, violating his personal space, moving up his face, and digging. The touch elicited a spike of pain that made him groan. Watkin’s mark, the thought registered after the initial stab of pain faded. 

“You’re a very strong man, Malcolm,” the voice was saying. “Others wouldn’t be up for hours after such a heavy dose of sedatives. But I’m glad. It gives us time to talk.” He grabbed a chair and sat, face still shrouded in the shadows. “Your mother’s still waiting for news on you. Lieutenant Gil Arroyo is there too. They are  _ very  _ worried.” 

Malcolm’s hand twitched. The shadow disappeared and before Malcolm could write it off as a dream, it spoke again, further away. “Give him something to make him more lucid, but not too much that he remembers.”

“Yes, sir.” Another voice came through, a woman.

Time passed in silence, or maybe time wasn’t even moving. But then the fog eased and Malcolm felt himself become more awake. It was like a dose of caffeine and suddenly the world started filtering back in. 

He was lying on his back, on something  _ soft _ . It was unlike the cold and harsh floors he was forced to sleep on for the past couple of days. The mattress accommodated him like a mold, taking his shape. Below him were pillows, keeping him safe and comfortable.  _ Well, as comfortable as he could get seeing that his body was on fire, throbbing.  _

The phantom's hands rested on his and Malcolm flinched. When the voice spoke again he finally placed it. It belonged to Nicholas Endicott. Malcolm was confused. What was he doing here? 

“The doctors wanted to tell them the news first, that you’re okay.  _ But... _ I wanted some alone time with you first,” Endicott chuckled. “People tend to  _ do what I ask _ .” 

Something in his speech was making Malcolm uneasy. The whole situation was sending his warning bells buzzing. 

“Malcolm, you with me?” Nicholas asked.

“Mhmm” was all the answer Malcolm could give him. 

“Ok. So as I was saying,” Nicholas continued. “You really shouldn’t go snooping around and getting yourself into trouble again. Right, Malcolm?”

The hands moved back to his face again and Malcolm felt every inch of him crawl with fear. He wasn’t sure why he was seeing Endicott, but he felt uncomfortable under his touch, trapped. He tried to raise his hands but they caught on something. The familiar feeling of being restrained registered in his mind, just like every night at home. Restrained to the bed, unable to move his hands or defend himself. 

“Just remember. Next time,” Endicott’s shadow bent close and whispered into his ear, his breath raising the hairs on Malcolm’s neck. “You might not make it out alive.”

Malcolm’s panic overwhelmed him. Why was Endicott threatening him? If only his head wasn’t so heavy, sluggish, and disoriented. 

The ghost disappeared and Malcolm lay in panic for a few more minutes, anxiety building up. But despite his imminent terror, Malcolm found himself dozing off again.

  
  



	12. Tell No One

Tell No One

When they rolled Malcolm into the OR, forcing Gil to stay in the waiting room, he was feeling like his heart had shattered. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the bloody haggard image of the kid, sprawled onto the gurney, passed out, an oxygen mask held over his face. He needed to be with him. 

On their way to the hospital, Malcolm had panicked, flailing around when they tried to put the oxygen mask over his face and refusing to be held down. It took Gil quite sometime before he got through to him, calmed him down enough until the sedative worked. The rest of the ride was spent in silence as Gil let the medics work. 

JT and Dani drove with Watkins to get him processed. They had him checked and stitched him up on the scene. The poor girl in the compactor was on the following bus. Gil wasn’t in his right mind to inspect the scene, but he heard JT exclaim how Malcolm must have saved her, seeing how the compactor machine Watkins used to kill his victims was destroyed. It must have been when Malcolm attacked Watkins; his wounds were fresh. It made Gil’s heart swell with pride. Despite how Malcolm looked, despite his pain and exhaustion, he had managed to stand up to Watkins, and stop him from killing anyone else.

“Gil,” Jessica’s breathless voice came from behind him and he turned to meet her. “Is he okay? Malcolm? Is he okay?” Her blue eyes looked at him imploringly; distress, and pain so evident in her eyes, etched on her face. 

Gil moved in to hug her and she leaned into his touch, crying softly. It was a sight unseemly to Jessica Whitly but Gil suspected she didn’t care. “He will be,” he assured her because the kid had to be. He’s strong and he would make it. Gil wouldn’t even think of any other outcome to this. He directed her to the waiting room and they both sat together in silence, hoping for news soon.

It wasn’t until early dawn that they were given any news. Malcolm _was fine._ The doctor listed a roster of injuries that varied from a stab wound to dehydration to a shattered ankle, but he was _fine_. The kid was sleeping, the effects of sedatives still keeping him under for now. The doctor assured them that Malcolm would make a full recovery, but it was best if he stayed under supervision for forty-eight hours before they assessed his release conditions. 

Upon hearing the news, they both let out a collective exhale of relief. Jessica rested a shaky hand on Gil's elbow and squeezed for support as they were both led to the room Malcolm now lay in. 

What was waiting for them was _not_ what they expected? Gil was appalled when he saw Malcolm. Jessica gasped behind him, her steps faltering. 

“What is this?” Gil demanded gesturing at Malcolm. The kid was sleeping in the bed fully restrained. A strap across his chest, and leather restraints on his upper wrists, even one securing his uninjured ankle. Gil’s blood boiled when he saw it. 

He knew that Malcolm could have terrible night terrors, but it didn’t warrant this many restraints, especially when he’s in such a weak state. 

“I...I’m sorry, I just started my shift,” The nurse was flustered. She took the board attached to his bed and looked through it. “It says here that he was thrashing on the table and attacked the attending doctor so he had to be restrained for _his safety.”_

Before Gil could talk, Jessica growled passionately. “My son was _kidnapped… for days!_ Remove these _immediately!”_

“But ma’am,” the nurse stammered. 

“No buts,” Gil interjected. “We will keep an eye on him. Please remove these. He’ll panic if he wakes up in them.”

As the nurse scurried to undo the buckles, Malcolm squeezed his eyes and moaned, wincing against the pain he must be feeling, but not waking up from it.

Jessica hurried next to him, holding his hand tenderly and brushing it against her cheek. Silent tears fell down her face and Gil ached to go and comfort her. Yet, some part of him felt like this was a family moment he didn’t want to interrupt. 

Gil looked at the kid lying in bed and surveyed his injuries. Malcolm looked so small, sleeping peacefully. But if anyone spared him a glance, they would see the tales of his suffering etched on his body, his injuries enough proof of what he was forced to endure.

Gil matched the report that the Doctor gave them with what he saw before him. He was hooked to an IV pumping him with pain killers, and another with saline and nutrients for dehydration. His face was littered with small scratches, but there was one big cut on his cheek and another near his hairline, gifts from Watkins. Gil hoped that they wouldn’t scar and serve as constant reminders of the horrible time the kid had spent with the killer. God knows he had enough reminders already. 

Bright’s foot was held in a cast, raised slightly to prevent him from adding any pressure on the abused bones. According to the doctor, the bone had shattered and it had required two surgeries to set it back. It’ll take the kid a while before he’s back to normal. 

Whatever else was hidden, Gil had already seen back in the ambulance. His stomach had threatened to empty its contents when he saw Bright’s torso. The medics had torn off his hoodie to look for his injuries and they were all shocked to see a collection of bruises that varied in colors and sizes. But the bile rose to his throat when he saw the burn marks on his abdomen. Gil could only guess how they were inflicted and the thought of what Watkins could have done to the kid had him seeing red. He would have _killed_ Watkins for what he did if he was anywhere near them now. 

Gil clutched his hands and squeezed his eyes. He had failed Malcolm twice... and the guilt was tearing him apart. Perhaps that was the main reason why he couldn't approach him, the reason he stayed at the bed’s foot.

He felt responsible for this. A few tears made their way to his eyes.

Gil would never forgive himself. 

* * *

Hours passed. 

Malcolm was lying in bed, sleeping peacefully, and to Gil, this was, perhaps, the most alarming and unBright thing ever. The kid rarely relaxed in his sleep, let alone sleep this long without stirring. Jessica was asleep in the armchair and Gil didn’t want to wake her up. They had been up all night. He had pulled a chair next to Malcolm’s bed and waited for the kid to wake up.

After a couple more hours a soft moan alerted him that he was coming to. Malcolm’s eyebrows creased in pain before he opened his eyes. He blinked twice, disoriented, and obviously in a lot of pain.

“Hey kid,” Gil said.

“Gil?” Malcolm croaked out. It was like he’s afraid Gil was not real. 

“Yes, yes I am here kid. We got you!” 

Malcolm shot up, pushing himself off the pillows and winced from the movement. 

“Hey, hey, hey. Slow down” Gil eased him back to lie down. “Slow down, Malcolm. You’re safe.”

Malcolm looked at him, confusion filling his eyes. He slowly looked at his hands, lifting one wrist up. Satisfied with his range of movement, he rested it back next to him and exhaled shakily. 

“I let them remove the restraints. Sorry, they put them on, Bright,” Gil explained.

Malcolm looked at him like he was solving a puzzle, like Gil was speaking a foreign language. Malcolm looked panicked. Gil was missing something. “What’s wrong kid? Talk to me.”

“Were… were you always here?” He managed to whisper. 

“Yes, since the minute you came out. Your mother and I stayed with you while you slept,” Gil explained and gestured to where Jessica slept. 

Malcolm seemed to think for a while before he exhaled and eased back, closing his eyes. 

“Bright?” 

“Tis.. nothing.” He murmured. “Prob... jus.. a dream.”

And then he was back asleep before Gil asked another question.

* * *

When Malcolm came to this time, he was _actually awake,_ not floating in nothingness, not weighed down by drugs, and certainly not swimming in pain in Watkins’ grasp. 

The smell of antiseptic attacked him, followed by the sound of his monitoring machine beeping. His eyes opened to see white plain walls, the curtains in his room were draped but the faint rays of sunlight were seeping through the openings. 

Before he could move, Gil was standing by his bed, forcing a smile. He brushed Malcolm’s stray hair strands. The touch was careful and slow like Malcolm was fragile, like Gil was afraid he’d hurt him. Malcolm guessed he must look as bad as he felt. 

“Hey, kid,” he asked tentatively. “How do you feel.”

In truth, Malcolm felt like hell. Every inch of his body hurt. His foot was throbbing with a vengeance, his head was hammering, his muscles were burning and his hand- the one Watkins sliced- was in agony. But no one needed to know that. 

The automatic reply was almost out of his mouth when he realized that Gil won’t buy it. Malcolm smiled weakly. Avoiding the banter, he settled for a diplomatic answer.

“I’ve... felt better,” he croaked out and coughed as he spoke. He swallowed hard, his throat feeling so dry. 

Gil hurriedly handed him a glass of water and helped him drink. 

“Thank you, Gil,” he smiled as he rested his head back. The cool liquid felt heavenly in his mouth and he almost cried in relief. 

Something as simple as water when he needed it was a luxury with Watkins. It was given to him when Watkins thought he deserved it, not when Malcolm needed it. Malcolm’s needs were nothing Watkins cared about. He buried the thoughts as soon as they emerged. This was not the time to let himself think, not here, not in front of Gil. Instead, he focused on what he did best in these cases. Anything but himself. 

“Watkins… is he...”

“He’s alive,” Gil replied as he settled in the chair next to Malcolm’s bed. “Back in Rikers too. He was transferred to Claremont before he escaped. He had help from-“

“Simon Coppenrath?” Malcolm finished for him.

“He told you?” Gil asked, eyebrows raised. 

“He didn’t have to,” Malcolm shrugged. “I _knew_.” 

When Gil probed him to continue, eyes staring into his soul, Malcolm shook his head. That was all he could give him right now. Sure, he knew he would have to give a statement, but Malcolm didn’t want to revisit what Watkins did to him just yet. He didn’t want Gil to know how much the man had hurt him, used his fears against him. 

Gil knew Malcolm all too well, because he continued, trying no doubt, to interrupt Malcolm’s train of thought. “Actually, Simon’s the one who told us where you are. He gave us Watkins’ other alias and it led us right to you.”

Malcolm nodded. The news Gil gave him all lined up with his initial profile. While Simon could be the reason behind what Watkins did to him, someone else was in charge. Someone more powerful than them both, more reaching. The man his father told him about. 

“We need to talk to him, Gil. He was taking orders from someone else. Someone more powerful arranged for Watkins’ transfer, helped him escape.”

“I know, I know, Bright, but..”

“But what?” Malcolm asked. 

“Coppenrath was found this morning in his office with... with a bullet to his head,” he swallowed. “They’re ruling it a suicide.” 

Malcolm bit his lip, thinking. Something else was at play here. “What if this was punishment for helping you get to me?” he asked. “My father warned me about Sophie Sanders and the next thing, Watkins was out. It has to be related to him Gil. The man my father spoke about.”

His adrenaline was pumping, mind back at full force, thinking, analyzing. He needed access to his kidnapping case files. He needed to be _out_ of this bed, working this case, and…. he needed to be discreet about what he’s thinking because Gil was staring daggers at him. 

“What?” He exclaimed.

“You’re not leaving anytime soon, Bright!” Gil said firmly. “This is an order! As your boss. You will stay put until the doctors sign off on you leaving.”

“But _Gil,_ we need to find them,” Malcolm emphasized as if Gil didn’t already know how important that was. 

“We will,” Gil promised him. “For now you just try to rest… you’ve been through hell, Bright, you need to heal. Trust us to do the digging.”

Malcolm didn’t agree, yet he knew pushing won’t get him anywhere so he dropped it for now. Another thought sprung to his mind and he cursed himself for not thinking about it earlier. The girl Watkins had. How did he forget to ask about her?

“And the girl? … The one Watkins trapped in the car,” he shuddered, remembering the ordeal. “I tried to save her from him.”

“She’s alive, Bright. You _did_ save her. She's okay and has you to thank.”

Malcolm relaxed then, closing his eyes briefly before he opened them to look at Gil again. He didn’t know how he didn’t notice it before, but the man looked… _tired._ It pained him to know that he was the reason behind this hurt and exhaustion.

“I’m sorry, Gil,” Malcolm found himself blurting.

Gil looked at him, perplexed, confusion coloring his face. “What for, Malcolm,” and the fact that he called him Malcolm was all the more reason to worry. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner. Watkins could have killed you.” Gil’s lip trembled and tears brimmed at the corner of his eyes. 

“No,” Malcolm tried to reach out for Gil but winced when he moved. “ _No_ , _Gil_ , he wouldn’t have. Watkins wanted to change me, _make me like him_ . But … but I’m fine,” Malcolm said and the intensity of Gil’s glare made him cower. “Well, _not_ fine,” he corrected. “But I’ll be. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Worrying about you is part of my job, kid,” Gil admonished then sighed. “I’m just so glad you’re alive.” He reached for Malcolm’s neck and squeezed, and Malcolm felt like all the pains of the past few days were gone. Gil’s touch always had this effect. Gil’s touch was home. He relaxed and smiled, happy that he was safe, for now. 

“Your mother’s still sleeping. She was up all night waiting for news on you. She was very worried,” Gil told him. 

Malcolm’s breath caught, eyes flew wide open.

**_“Your mother’s still waiting for news on you. Lieutenant Gil Arroyo is there too. They are very worried.”_ **

**_“You really shouldn’t go snooping around and getting yourself into trouble again.”_ **

“Ainsley went to work but she’ll be back later today. Dani and JT will come by later to see you. Edrisa too. She has been...” Gil was saying but Malcolm wasn’t listening anymore. His mind was reeling.

 **_“People tend to do what I ask.”_ **

The lines echoed and bounced in his mind, so far away, and yet so close. _Tone threatening_. Words floating in his mind, uttered by a phantom’s voice, while Malcolm was _in this same bed._ His breathing hitched. 

**_“Have him restrained.”_ **

Malcolm flinched, and that’s when Gil stopped and looked at him. 

“Bright? You okay?”

“Yes! Fine!” and he was surprised to hear himself gasping. 

“What’s wrong? Are you in pain? Do I need to call a nurse?” Gil was firing one question after another and Malcolm needed to snap out of it and answer. He needed to find his voice. 

After a few moments of tense silence, he replied. “No, no need. I’m okay.” When Gil’s worried stare didn’t waiver he added, “I promise, just a flashback... um, what were you saying?”

Gil sighed audibly, clearly not believing him. “I was saying, Jessica had Louisa bring you some change. You’ll need to stay in the hospital for observation at least until tomorrow.”

At the mention of his things. Malcolm perked, an idea forming in his mind. “My phone? Do you have it?” he asked tentatively. 

“Yes, here you go,” Gil handed him his phone and Malcolm struggled to keep it in his grip. With his right hand completely indisposed, he had to support the phone and type using his left. 

A hopeful thought derailed his mission for a second. He checked his inbox, finding many messages from Edirsa, Dani, Tally, Ainsley, and even one from JT. His heart sank when he found no messages from Eve, though. Not a single one… 

It felt like months since she last walked out on him, breaking his heart. Malcolm couldn’t believe it had only been six days. And while his world had been a rollercoaster of events, of pain and hurt, Eve’s must have been uneventful, or at the very least safer. Regardless, she didn't text him back. _She was long over him._

Fighting through the pang of hurt, he found his sister’s number. He could dwell in self-pity later, but now he needed to do something important. Through his shaky grip, Malcolm sent her a text. 

**Ains. Dig up anything you can on Nicholas Endicott. Tell no one.**

  
  


_Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that is a wrap! finally :D 
> 
> This fic was written *technically* to fit in canon between episodes 18 and 19! (kinda.. hahhaa if Malcolm can miraculously recover in a week or so :P)
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking around with this! It was the longest fic I ever wrote and it was fun to share it with you guys <3<3
> 
> Super thanks to Jameena for being an amazing Beta and Hannah for being the best brainstormer ever <33 love you both!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> If you liked it, please leave a comment :D Comments always brighten my day!


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